We recently joined our local toy library. It is run by a members co-operative, which means I have to volunteer my time to run sessions and such during the year. This doesn’t really bother me; in fact, I’m looking forward to this kind of parent:
They come through the door, two toddlers in tow, screaming they don’t want to return ‘their’ toys, can’t they keep them a little longer? Despite mother’s assertion that, look around them!, there are plenty of other toys we can get now instead.
This placates the children and they run off to see what they can get.
Mother then goes up to the counter, and painstakingly counts out all 80 pieces of a puzzle they’ve borrowed, only for the counter-attendant to lose track at 57, where which she starts all over again……
[….mother suppresses a sudden need for that sweet, sweet lick of Jack Daniels and turns around to see her children tearing around, pulling toys down of the shelves willy-nilly. ]
…count is finally tallied and it is discovered that there is a puzzle piece missing. Dammit. Busted. That’s the second time in a row. Mother meekly accepts the fine and hopes she doesn’t get black-listed forevermore.
She turns around to see her Houdini-esque son has somehow managed to escape from the room and she tears outside to find him, trailed by a wailing daughter who is shouting, “I want more toys. WHY AREN’T WE GETTING THE TOYS NOW??!!”
But that could just totally me.
Actually that is totally me, and will be again next week, because I’ve (no THEY’VE) lost a ball we’ve borrowed and I’ve turned the house upside down looking for it.
I’ve even looked underneath the cavity under the dishwasher, and have needed to take an aspirin and lie down after the trauma of discovering what evil, dirty and loathsome creatures lay there…. (Bratz dolls head anyone? joking…no they’ve sunk to a deeper level of hell)
…but no ball.
Wish me luck finding it.
