I know. I said I wouldn't go to the library anymore, what with Andi having access to manuals on climbing and the potential for stalking to occur, but I have articles to write and I needed some books.
Having twin 4 year-olds, the amount of idiocy one comes up with is only made exponential with her cohert to add to it. At times, I am left speechless I am so angry at what the two of them come up with, other times I let loose a torrent of phrases and words that do nothing but act as a valve for my pent-up frustration.
Over the weekend, we went shopping. Dave and I decided to take the twin stroller, and Andi's singleton stroller, that way everyone would be corralled. It would make things easier and we could conquer fall/winter shopping once and for all. Many moms of multiples proclaim the internet as their best friend for shopping, citing the impossibility of shopping with multiple children the same age. I haven't jumped on that bandwagon, yet.
For some reason, the canopies on the strollers became the obsession of the twins during this shopping trip. OPEN. SHUT. OPEN. SHUT.
"Stop playing with those," I hiss. "One is about to fall off. Do you hear me? Am I making sense? What do we do with these canopies? LEAVE THEM OPEN. Got it? Next person to touch one is getting stuck in the car with the doors shut and windows rolled up under the hot sun."
When we arrived at the library yesterday, we went through our normal arguments about who gets to buckle Andi into the stroller. Sophia removed her hands from Andi's stroller seatbelt, and as I clasped the buckles together, Sophia grabbed the canopy and slammed it down -- onto my glasses -- breaking them.
OH hell damn.
A torrent of anger flies out of my mouth and we walk into the library, my glasses hanging crooked off the right side of my face. I grab my books, the twins grab theirs. Andi, angry that she is left in the stroller is hanging out the side of the stroller, "OHHHHHH!" She moans in between screams.
For the physical well-being of my children, and out of the respect for other patrons who do not want to see me murder my children in public, I skip the self-check machines and the fight that will ensue should we try to use them, and go straight to the librarian at the check-out desk.
"Can I help you?"
Setting my books up there apparently it is not obvious, at the check-out desk, that I want to check them out. "I want to check these out."
"Oh, have you not been trained in self-check?"
"Yes, I have, but I don't want the fight today."
"Well, when you come here to this desk, you will be re-directed to those machines everytime."
I stand there, glasses hanging off my face crookedly, and stare her down. She takes my books and says, "This time, I'll do it."
At 10:30 PM I am still irked by my interaction with the librarian and email a friend. He responds quickly to my assertion that the librarians "are all bitches. Every one of them." Tom, always calm and rational, asked me to be reasonable.
"They cannot all be bitches, though. Some must be sluts. It stands to reason."