(No, not the rockin Guns n’ Roses album, but the force of nature that is Carmen…)

Of all the trials and tribulations in my nearly five years of motherhood, I’d never suffered public humiliation until last week.   I have a thick skin– I can handle my toddler unloading in her swim diaper every single time we go to the pool.  I can survive a screaming tantrum on the Co-op floor because I won’t buy a chocolate-chip cookie.  But I’d never known parenting shame before The Children’s Room at the Library.

“You can’t check out these books.  You have a $15 charge on your card,” the librarian said stonily.

Shock must have crossed my face, because she continued.  “The ripped book you returned– The Jungle Book?  That will cost $15.”

“Oh dear.  I’m so, so sorry about the ripping,” I said, deeply embarrassed and regretful that my child had destroyed yet more library property.  “But do I really have to pay $15?  The book was pretty beat-up when we checked it out.”

The librarian appraised me with a cool stare.  “I can lower the fine slightly, but there have been many other ripped books you’ve brought back that we haven’t charged you for.”

At this, I flushed red and tried to sink through the floor.  Instead, I got out the cash, took my guilty, unrepentant toddler by the hand, and slunk away like a criminal.

The librarian’s voice admonished me like a slap on the wrist:  BAD MOTHER!  I felt like I’d been caught shoplifting or smoking pot.  The woman acted like I’d deliberately encouraged my progeny to rip books.  Or maybe I’d just lain on the couch drinking chardonnay while my two-year-old tore out page by page.

In truth, I was probably checking my email.  And Carmen manages to destroy most things very quickly, in the privacy of her own room.  If I were less of a slacker mom, I would monitor her every activity and catch her before she inflicted damage.  Or I would keep all library books in a locked cabinet and ration them, one per day, to be viewed under parental guidance only.

The real stinger is that I am a book-lover myself.  Our house is filled with all genres of literature, and I’ve been reading to my children since they were infants.  I adore the Library and am supremely grateful for its services.  I like to think I’ve instilled in my girls a healthy love and respect for books, although I don’t always supervise their reading.

“Books are our friends.  We have to treat them with kindness,” I told my two-year-old after the first ripping incident.  After the second one, I resorted to threats:  “We won’t be able to check any more books or movies out of the Library unless you stop ripping!”

The latest time, I turned to my daughter in fury.  “Why?  Why did you do it?  Why did you rip The Jungle Book!?”

“Because of the scary tiger,” she replied.

Aha– there was method to her madness!  She’d been frightened of the evil Shere Khan and decided to take matters, literally, into her own hands by excising him from the story.

I felt relief that Carmen’s ripping hadn’t been blind destruction.  The child loves to do damage.  While her big sister enjoys building sandcastles, she likes to raze them.  If there’s a block tower or Lego castle in sight, she’ll knock it down.  She delights in clearing bookshelves and dumping out baskets of tiny toys–tea party dishes and plastic food scattered over the rug for her mother to tidy.  Ever since she could walk, she’s gone outside and thrown the family shoes off the porch, one by one.

Is this normal toddler behavior?  Is she looking for attention? If I were less distracted and better at organizing activities, rather than letting my kids run wild like banshees through the house, maybe I wouldn’t need to hide my face at the Library.

My husband has another theory.  “She’s curious.  She wants to see how things work,” he observes.  He’s often her ally when I discover her latest mess– new seeds for the garden scattered in the grass, for example. Perhaps he envisions her as a future scientist, whereas I can’t help rage at the prospect of yet more clean-up.  Nothing is sacred anymore, not even my laptop, which Carmen once drew all over in permanent marker.  Not my journal, which itself has fallen victim to a ripping spree.  A friend refers me to the website www.shitmykidsruined.com , where parents post pictures of their damaged possessions.

One parenting handbook, Magic Tools for Raising Kids, believes that adults get infuriated at kid misbehavior because the results waste either their time or money.  Since children can’t understand these abstractions, the book urges us to change our expectations.

I wish I had a tidy toddler who didn’t leave a swathe of destruction in her wake.  I’ve met kids like this, and they are lovely.  Yet Carmen, for all her naughtiness, is so full of life and spark that just seeing her little naked body race across the front yard infuses me with joy.  Her mischief is an expression of joie de vivre.   She is a big personality– as am I– and my karma is to make room for her as she grows.  We’ll have to make room for each other, if we are to survive.

Tags:   destruction · library books · toddlers1 Comment