Puddin' in the Mix

A surreal moment at Borders Babies:

"Excuse me, excuse me!" trilled a voice above the toddler din. "I'd like to make a request!" I turned to locate her. She was an attractive woman dressed incongruously, for 10:30 on a Wednesday, in shimmery red paillette sequins. Because she was sitting with us amidst the strollers and sippy cups, I assumed she was one of the moms. "It's my birthday today," she announced. "And I have nothing to do all day, so I came in here to buy a book."

Huh. Apparently not one of the moms. Now that I think about it, distinctly un-momesque, with the sequins and what not. Here's where it got kooky:

"And I'd like the children to sing happy birthday to me right now. That would really feed my inner child."

I had a sudden vision of her inner child stuffing her maw with Cheerios. But the story lady had impeccable, unflappable manners. She raised her tuning fork and rallied the troops. All the moms and a few grudging children dutifully sang "Happy Birthday," at which point the Sequin Lady thanked us and vanished into the mist.

And I smiled a secret little smile to myself, having just obtained very public proof that I am not the most narcissistic birthday girl in the world. Sweet.

How Jarrah is so very, very Jarrah:

After the bubbles, the story lady announces that it is stamp time, and "I'll stamp all day, so there's no need to push." I don't know why she bothers. In seconds she is enveloped in striving limbs. Since Jarrah is one of the shorter kids in the group today, soon I can't see her. I just have to have faith that she's somewhere in that knot of flailing limbs. One by one, the children emerge, triumphantly waving a hand at their mother, now festooned with a purple cat. Jarrah, however, does not emerge. She is in there a very, very long time. After a little while, I hear an unmistakable cry: "Ma-MA! Ma-MA!" I am looking at a dozen blond children and there is no Jarrah that I can see. But I hear it again, clear and strong as the day is long: "Ma-MA! Ma-MA!" I am laughing, imagining what the story lady thinks about this tenacious little person who keeps shrieking "Ma-MA!" at her. And then, she is nigh. She stumbles to the outside of the circle, and not seeing me at first, looks anxiously around. "Jarrah!" I call to her, and she finds my voice and smiles. She trots over to me, and as she gets closer I can see that both her hands are completely covered in purple kitties.

And then she raises her shirt: there is a purple kitty stamped right above her belly button.

There you have it, folks. The girl for whom too much is never enough.