(I penned this piece last fall, but like an idiot, I forgot to post it here—hope it still makes you smile)

Once upon a Time, There Was a Dreadfully Dull Library Book…

 

This Friday will be Library Day for one of my first graders and already I am filled with dread. To put it bluntly, I hate the cussed affair.

 

“Why?” you might ask. “How could such a joyous event beget utter despair and loathing?”—especially given that the whole book-signing-out process is designed to nurture growth and independence among emerging readers, as well as cultivate a lifelong love of all-things-bookish. It simply defies logic to hate something that reeks of goodness.

 

Not for me it doesn’t.

 

Basically it’s because my cherubs are blessed with the remarkable ability to select titles that are, in a word, highly unremarkable. The Plain Janes of children’s literature. Bleck! It’s as if they’re drawn to the woefully dull and the pitifully uninteresting—most of the time anyway.

 

“And the chestnut horse nickered, ‘Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.’” Couldn’t it at least be whispered for Heaven’s sake?! Or murmured?! I realize that “nickered” might be a fitting choice for verbiage here (since we’re talking about a talking horse); but it’s boring and it’s hard to pronounce. Plus, I find it fairly irksome to state it OVER and OVER again within a passage that spans the length of my left shoelace. And why on earth can’t the stupid animal utter something other than that which will make me virtually comatose when I plunk myself on the couch and read it aloud for the 40^th time, page after page, chapter after agonizing chapter? I mean really—how difficult is it to liven up something that (for all intents and purposes) is already dead?

 

It’s no surprise, I guess, that I am guilty of having skipped entire passages (Gasp!) or at the very least, of having altered the storyline of many a tired and tedious library treasure. Shamelessly, I’ve thrown adverbs, adjectives and even sarcasm into the mix in order to save select pieces from certain death—or presumably, to make them tolerable, both for the listeners and for myself. Call it generous paraphrasing, colorful fabrication or self-preservation if you will. That’s how I justify my crimes against the creators of all-that-is-deplorably-bland-and-passé.

 

Aside from amending or altogether eliminating parts of the sorrowful stuff that Library Day invariably produces, the only other effective strategy I’ve found to make the ugliness go away is to whine—excessively and with great drama. More specifically, I gripe and groan theatrically whenever my kids reach into the depths of their backpacks to retrieve one of those oh-so-detestable titles they’ve brought home from school yet again—the ones which remind me that I do, in fact, still have a gag reflex. Of course, I then beg and plead for a Junie B. Jones book (or several!), promising to deliver mountains of ice cream to anyone and everyone who will oblige next Library Day.

 

Sometimes the grousing tactic works, and they remember “Mom really hates those horsie books. OH NO!” Other times, it backfires and they remember “Mom really hates those horsie books. OH YES!” Which proves undeniably that my kids are often motivated by things that cause me great pain and suffering—never mind sugary rewards. Wicked little twerps anyway. Then again, they’re also mildly entertained when I nod off in mid-sentence, drop the book squarely on my nose and ham-handedly flail my arms about as if swatting flies from my face. Upon rousing from my stupor, the discussion usually goes something like, “Hon, were you pinching my cheek just now—to keep me from falling asleep? I thought I felt you poking me or something.”

 

“Nope. I just pushed your eyelid up, Mommy.”

 

Sadly, even this radical move is rarely effective. Perhaps she should nicker in my ear next time.

 

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

 

Copyright 2007 Melinda L. Wentzel