I know there’s been an irresponsible lapse in my blog posts.  A heaping bowl of back-to-school-back-to-work-trauma is enough to break a woman.  Throw in a liberal pinch of fractured wrist whininess and desperate-to-feel-beautiful balayage* gone awry, and my sense of humor’s been liposuctioned.  Come on, Jordana, pick a more opportune time to leap from the swing set.  First week of school and weeks before our once-in-a-lifetime Disney Cruise (costs more than a Hyundai BTW), not so convenient, my little limp armed friend.

Readers, I’m begging for forgiveness and showering you with virtual Dove chocolate.  I promise to keep writing, even if it’s not weekly.  You wouldn’t want me to suffer a nervousness break down, even if it would make a brilliant blog entry, right?

To ease back into this gig, I’ve saved you a library gem with a (Spoiler alert), sappy, happy (crazy, right??) ending.  Jackson, Juliette and I had a luscious week together when Jordana went back to school (pre-wrist break), the three of us yucking it up all over town.  I had a list of special things, which I could then post on Facebook (Look at me! Model mom!), zoo trips, trampolines, waterfalls, you get it, pretty posed pictures.  But, Jackson was content with a daily dose of Starbucks popcorn then librarying it up every day- local, free, and no big-ta-do/hair-pullingly long car ride. Sure, kid!  I’ll take caffeine and air conditioning over restoring my Facebook persona any time.

Since our last fiasco, library=tiptoeing across field of landmines.  Jamie, stay vigilant.  Look over shoulder, pounce on kid if needed, flee prior to explosion.  I’ve been strategic about the libraries we frequent because, gosh darn, I refuse to be booted again!

The library we love most is both beautiful and full of helpful book loving employees. Our fave is their café area with its own train table where caregivers can gab, stuffing gooeyness in their faces while kids slobber over germy Thomases. Side note, the café is an effective bribery method.  “I’ll get you library pizza if you leave me alone for five minutes,” works.  Amazing how Jackson can hold his SH.. together for melty mozz.

Here’s why this particular library really is EVERYTHING. During the dregs of the past winter….

Jackson screams: “I love Fucking waffles” across a long silent hall dotted with cozy readers .

“Does everyone here love Fucking Waffles?????”  Voice ricocheting.

Echo: “Fucking waffles…Fucking waffles….Fucking waffles.”

Crouched and shaking, I implore: “Buddy it’s Funk N’ Waffles**.  Stop screaming.”

“You mean like Uptown FUCKKKKKK you up, Mom?”

Oh fuck.  “Honey, shhhhh.  It’s uptown Funk you up,” I say sweetly like Pollyanna on ‘roids then usher my cursing sailor kid back to the trains.

The remarkable thing about the profanity incident is this, I was hot-flash red, but not scolded and thrusted out the door like we were meth dealing.  I shook off the embarrassment, and we enjoyed another hour of jolly G rated train-tabling unscathed.  Best library ever!!!

Back to the day in question, Jackson’s stuffed with fake Starbucks’ butter, I’m caffeined up and on high alert.  We’re ready to hit the library hard core.  This time, however, fresh from getting drop kicked from the neighboring library, it’s paranoia city.  I stick Juliette in front of a walker, and concentrate on keeping her from busting her head open while Jackson positions himself at the train table.  Within minutes, I hear “That’s My Train.”  Damn.  The baby plummets, smacking the floor, head a basketball bouncing on hardwood.  Jackson’s making enemies again.  Sigh.  The freaking baby is now jiggling on my knee as my son wrestles a train out of a little boy’s hands.  “Jackson. Use your words.  We share at the library. This is warning one.”  Jackson’s face is twisted into a look that gives me PTSD.  He produces a guttural  “My Traiiiiin.”  “Jackson.  Second warning.  One more, we leave the library.”  My sharing-phobic son glares back.  The baby’s hiked up my hip.  We’re ready to bounce.

“MY TRAIIIIIN.” I shall not be tossed from the library again.  Action time- grab Jackson’s hand, run for it, and don’t drop crying baby.  Too late, suckerrrrr.  The brat flattens himself into a writhing floor pancake.  Manic mom thoughts….Mean librarian.  Sobbing outside library.  Ogling onlookers.  Gotta get out of here.

“Jackson get up now.  We’re leaving.”  Forget it.  The kid is stuck to the ground like week-old food on my kitchen floor.  I grab and tug.   Sweat’s pouring off me cross-fit style, pulling, yanked and grunting with Juliette squirming in my other arm.  “Get up Now!  Off the floor.”  Yank, and we slither a few inches.

Then the dreaded voice looms over me.  It’s…. a librarian?  Please, nooooo.  Before I can implore her not to kick us to the curb, she says softly, “Let me help you. I’ll take the baby.”  Instantly, I toss Juliette over, pulling the flailing hostage up into my arms.  We walk out to the minivan with Jackson dangling from my arms, kicking and hitting.  This woman carefully straps Juliette into her seat.  I’m enduring a flurry of body slams, pressing Jackson into his. The doors shut, and we don’t say a word.  I I hug this stranger hard, and she hugs me back.

This kind woman saved me in that moment, but also from drowning myself in the turmoil of raising a nutso kid.  Sure, I was mad as hell driving home, but I wasn’t a  crushed mom-failure who left her dignity wadded up in the library. Kids are kids.  Tough kids are tough kids to parent.  Things get CRAZY.

Thank you, Sue, the Director of the FFFL. Your one gesture, your offering, makes this craziness beautiful.

* Balayage is supposedly a method for getting that natural sun-kissed blonde look.  It can also look like you haven’t been to the salon in a year to get your roots done….

https://therighthairstyles.com/balayage-hair-colors/

** Funk N’ Waffles, not to be confused with fucking waffles, is a cool Syracuse spot that serves, you guessed it, waffles.

http://www.funknwaffles.com/wp/