A friend and I went to the local bookstore this weekend to pass the time while our husbands were working on the pool in the yard. I had a specific book in mind for myself, and apparently so did Sacha. I hadn’t bothered to put S in the stroller since he and the stroller have had a bit of a tif in the past few days and I knew that they weren’t on amicable terms. This meant that while I was browsing for books, he would be in my arms or on the floor of the store. Mistake number 1.
I found the book I was looking for (Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal) in the first couple of minutes, then I just browsed around, looking at the bargain books, kids’ books, and obviously, knitting books. as I grazed through the kids’ books, shuddering at the horror of the onslaught of Dora books (how I hate her so much), I looked down to see S playing with a little purse/book. Aw, that’s cute, I thought. I found a unique ABC book inspired by Canada’s love affair with all things hockey and flipped through it. I looked down to show S the book, only to find that the entire bottom shelf of the kids’ book section was empty, and my son was in the middle of the pyramid of paper and board. Oh crap. My friend (who is expecting her first child in 5 weeks) and I acted quickly to toss the books back on the shelf (not giving a shit about ISBN numbers or author’s last name). Unfortunately, S thought this was a game. Mistake number 2.
He kept yanking books off faster than we could throw them back, and then he sat in the middle of the aisle and worked his own organizational system on both shelves within arm’s reach at once. Dora: floor. Munsch: floor. Dr Seuss: floor. Pat the Bunny: mouth, then floor. He then crawled to the Young Adult section, where he started working his magic on the Gordan Korman books, the Spiderwick series, and the Harry Potter books. All of these found a new home on the floor (after he tasted the paper, of course). I quickly grabbed a couple of touch-and-feel books and tried to read them to him (or at least get him to touch-and-feel them) while my friend threw the books back on the shelf. He looked at the book, made no attempt to touch-and-feel it, then turned to the knitting books and tossed them on the floor. Sweet merciful crap.
I scooped his little diaper bum up, walked to the till while my friend finished covering up our disaster, paid for the books while he struggled in my arms for his freedom, and raced out of the store before anyone could blame me for the obvious mess we’d made.
As it stands, we have not yet been banished from the store. Book stores don’t have fingerprinting and DNA recognition tools, right?