Librarians: why are you trying to ruin my life? As the full-time parent of an 18-month old boy (“The Mayor”), story time is the social event of my week. To be honest, it was doomed from the jump-off today. The second we sit down, about five minutes early, the tears start flowing. We’re just starting to get back into the flow of our routine, with the evil, activity-free summer now behind us, so big groups are a little nerve-wracking for the Mayor (and I). I immediately switch into crisis mode. We’re ABCing, trot-trotting to Boston, and clapping our hands, despite a severe happiness deficiency. We’re three songs deep and story time hasn’t even begun, this could be a bloodbath.

Mercifully, the librarian enters with her stack of books, puppets, and song lyrics. Today, however, some new ground rules are in place. One: There is an invisible barrier around the librarian’s chair. OK, suuuure. You think twenty-five toddlers are going to listen to four stories and six songs without getting all up in your business? Knock yourself out in that fantasy world. Two: No eating in the library. Well that’s a gimme. Do people really think that can just sit down with their sandw- I’m sorry, what? Even Cheerios? Are you out of your @#$%ING mind???

There are only two certainties I know of. The boy will wake up from his nap thirty seconds after I finish making my lunch, and Cheerios can solve every known problem in the toddler world. Those little grain-based circles of awesome have kept me from going Christian Bale more times than I care to admit. They are the the cure for the common tantrum, the sustenance of the self-imposed starving, and, quite possibly, an alternative fuel source (I’ve found troves of them inside the “gas tank” of his Cozy Coupe countless times). You take away my his Cheerios, and you are inviting chaos into the circle-time. The reasoning behind this act of fascism? When Cheerios fall they get ground into the carpet. Yeah, we know. We vacuum them out of our own carpets at home every day. We, do not, however, employ a staff of cleaners to do it for us. I’ll happily scrub the whole library clean myself for the right to bribe my kid with snacks.

Inevitably, about 20 minutes into story time, the fussiness creeps in. At first, it’s just a whine and a glare. The story has barnyard noises, so the Mayor is captivated for a few moments more, relishing this chance to moo, nay, and cluck his heart out. But then, the look of remembering appears on his face. He turns, and the dance begins.

“Daddy. O’s, please.”

“I’m sorry, buddy. We have to wait until we’re in the car”

“Daddy. Ooooooooo’s. Pleeeeeeeeasse!!!”

“No, buddy. We can’t have them in….”

The sentence doesn’t get finished. It never does. I am now the proud owner of a 25 pound nuclear reactor. Chernobyl, 1986. No one is safe. The screams fill the room with terror as the sippy cup goes whizzing past my head. In the ensuing panic, twins are trampled, someone sets fire to the puppets, pop-up books are being fashioned into shivs, and the Lego trebuchet is getting built as fast as the little hands can stack the blocks. Michael Bay couldn’t do this disaster justice. The boy is quickly collected, and we make our exit, but not before he stares right into the librarian’s soul, as if to say “You! You did this to me!”

Of course, once he’s buckled into his car seat, board book in one hand, O’s in the other, all is forgotten. A creepy zen-like wave washes over him while I’m left to wear my shame like Hester Prynne. Halfway through our ten-minute ride home, he’s now fighting off sleep instead of tears. At home, after a glass of milk and a Gwen Stefani (we’re not allowed to say, or spell, “banana” in our house, lest we incite a potassium inspired riot) the boy is passed out in his bed. Success.