She can't control her kids

Yesterday I wrote about my bad day. What I didn't tell you was how the day began (which might explain a lot).

As any good mother should, I dress and brush my offspring and we walk to the library for that SAHM staple, Story Hour. There, along with other blandly smiling and dark-circle-eyed mothers, we sing "Twinkle, Twinkle" and "Open, Shut" and listen to the soft-spoken librarian reading King Bidgood's in the Bathtub (really good!). My two sit attentively like the in-public angels they usually are. We do a simple craft before thanking the librarian and her sweet volunteer and go on our way.

All's good! We've gotten some fresh air and exercise, some education, I'm feeling confident with my new haircut and push-up bra, and my children have made me proud.

We head downstairs to pick out our weekly DVDs. E.T. and Oliver. Now it's Mommy's turn to choose her visual brain-suck of choice. I find them each a book and some slightly disturbing giant hand chairs on which to sit while I quickly grab something. Little Lady is happyly absorbed in a book on wizards and witches but Tator isn't overly impressed with the polar bear book I offer. I sweetly ask him to give me just one moment. Crawling under the circle of cupped hands is more appealing to him. So, I ask him if he'd like to help Mommy pick out a movie. And I turn to go.

And he's off. I swing back around and he's disappeared. Hoarsely, I whisper-yell for him. But he's nowhere to be seen. Then, over the other side of the reference desk I spot his curly tete.

Tator!

And he's off again. Like a baby elephant he's pounding through the still of the computer-gazing, paper-reading, and book-browsing public. I speed-walk after him, and the game is on. He squeals with joy (or fear at the look on my face?) as he corners bookracks and knees.

Tator, STOP!

Each time I get within reach I miss him by millimeters. Here I am, a grown woman running through the library fuming like the dragon on the wall of the children's reading room. And the imp is having a blast knowing his mother is playing this wonderful game of cat and mouse.

Finally, I have him cornered, and in front of a woman trying to quietly research, I wrestle my screeching child to the ground. The look she gives me is one not of sympathy or empathy, it's more like disdain. And at that point I feel only disdain for myself. I cannot control my child and, like an idiot, I lost my senses to the point that I humiliated myself in this public place. My anger flares.

With captured child held tightly in my arms I grab my bag and instruct Little Lady to leave the movies and come! NOW!

I march out, careful not to catch anyone's eye. I throw Tator in the stroller and power-walk the fifteen minute walk home in half the time. Little Lady is near tears because the movies were left behind. I try to soothe her with the assurance that I am not angry with her.

Tator tearfully says, "you not happy with me, Mama?" He is sent to his bed once home and he has the grace to stay put for a half hour. When he calls to me we talk about why he had been sent to bed and says he's sorry for running away. He is hugged and kissed and sent downstairs to join his sister watching PBS.

I remain on his bed, still trying to disperse the darkness pooled in my chest.