Wardrobe Malfunctions

Today I took N and O to the book store so she could pick out something with her birthday money.
(B was kind enough to take his nap during this time, and Jimmy was kind enough to be home with him). I thought that, being that we were in a book store, N might choose a couple books. Instead, she picked out a "make your own crystal" set.

And an ant farm.

I briefly considered the dangers involved. The crystal set said right on the box "contains potentially dangerous chemicals", and the ant farm, presumably, meant there that would be ants living in our home. Happy Birthday, sweet daughter! Here are some dangerous chemicals and insects to make your birthday complete.

But, it was her birthday money, after all. So I ignored the voice that told me this was probably a really stupid idea, and told her she could get them. Even though I couldn't believe we were not only paying to have ants in our house, but that I also agreed to allow my seven-year-old to buy something with a  "potentially dangerous chemical" label.  I told myself that at least these were educational toys. The ant farm will be great if she decides to be an entomologist. Or an exterminator. And the make your own crystal set is made by the Smithsonian. How much more educational can you get?  I'm sure it also has some future real life value. I mean, if you can make your own crystals in a lab set, I'm sure it's only a matter of time before you can make your own crystal meth in a lab.

We get in line and I see that the magazines are at N's exact eye level. One advertises How You Can Make Yourself Sexier. Another says You Can Have Great Sex. I stand between N and the magazine racks and start rambling about ant farms and making your own crystal.

Please let it be our turn soon. Pretty please?

O decides to run away. I thought it would be a piece of cake to have just him with us and not B , so easy in fact that I decided I didn't need to bring the stroller. Just further proof that you are no smarter after your third child than you are with your first. I chase O, realizing as I do that I am leaving my seven-year-old to read about sex and being sexy. As I catch O, his shorts fall down around his ankles, and I suddenly remember that these shorts, which I grabbed out of a bin of B's old clothes, were always too big on B.

It's finally our turn. I pick up a very squirmy O so he won't perform another striptease for our fellow customers, and try to smile as I tell the cashier "No, thank you. We don't want to sign up for the frequent readers club today", while I am really thinking Does it look like I have time to sign up for anything other than a minimum three night stay in the nearest psych ward?

The cashier suddenly looks flustered, and I briefly wonder if I have actually spoken the words that are supposed to stay inside my head. But as I feel a sudden draft, I realize that he is probably flustered because O is now holding onto my shirt.

And pulling it down to somewhere in the general vicinity of my belly button.

I pretend I am not exposing myself to the cashier in the bookstore, as I move O, attempt to put my shirt back where it belongs, and non-chalantly tell N to get her money ready to pay.

As we pay, I start to suggest that they move their magazines up higher, but then I realize that an exhibitionist mother with an exhibitionist child is probably not the person to be commenting on how prominently they have displayed the word "sexy".

Instead, I smile, make sure we all have our clothes on, and leave, knowing that any residual embarrassment will be worth it.

After all, we're going to have real live ants and a crystal meth lab at our house.

What more could you ask for?