I forget why, but I took Anna to story time at the Open Space visitors center. I'm rather fond of the Open Space areas in our city. Of course, it's Open Space in the sense of serene pockets of wilderness and wildlife tucked into the city, not Open Space in the Roswell martian sense. I saw online that they were doing a Southwest-themed story time, so Anna and I went last Saturday. The visitors center is breezy, monastary-quiet, and spicy with sage and juniper. Very relaxing for anyone not visiting with a 3-year-old.
Anna was one of the youngest in attendance at the day's activity-- and was by far the most active. She couldn't just look at the sculpture garden replica of New Mexico's topography, she had to climb the volcanoes; she couldn't simply stand on the lookout over the wind swept mud flats, she had to announce that they were poo-poo.
Story time was hosted that day by a retired teacher, who loved the kids and the stories dearly. Most of the kids were mesmerized by her inflective readings about Hopi children, coyotes, and rain dances. Anna loved the stories as well, she just had a hard time remaining still for so many of them. At the beginning of the story time, she and I were sitting together on one of the fancy red leather sofas, but she soon had to move about the place alternating between our spot on the sofa and the floor -- at one time cuddling with a sweet grandmother who I hadn't even met but who patted Anna's back and let her scoot up next to her and suck her thumb.
Towards the end, Anna crossed over into downright antsy -- the kind of antsy that embarasses a mommy. She was squirming all over, and though she insists on wearing dresses nearly every day, she hasn't come close to an understanding of lady-like behavior, so she kept tossing her legs into the air and flashing the audience with her Dora the Explorer panties, which were only covering one of her little toddler cheeks because somewhere during the course of the morning, she had put them on backwards.
Finally, I had to leave my perch on the couch and join her on the front row of the floor in some attempt to reign in the flailing legs for the last few minutes of the last story. She plopped onto my lap, but was still rocking like a beetle trying to right itself from having turned over onto its back. After one of my whispered attempts to get her to sit still -- the kind of whisper that comes out like a hiss -- she decided to try to whisper an explanation to mommy why she had to move around; she still, however, whispers in a voice that's louder than her regular speaking voice. She scream-whispers -- the kind of whisper that makes one red in the face -- because she doesn't really have faith that her whispers can be heard by anyone more than a millimeter away from her mouth. In truth, her whisper was heard by the cranes in the mudflats: "My Panties are stuck!"
All heads turned and all faces smirked. Before I could compose an answer other than a snort, she said it again -- louder this time, if that's possible: "My Pant-ees are stuck!" I tried to discreetly 'unstick' them, but she didn't notice and instead flopped over to face me, since I still, clearly, hadn't understood her: "My pant-ees are sssttuck!" -- this time with the tone of a teenager trying to get through to her idiotic mother. Like she was going suddenly learn to spell, pull my face up close to hers and go "S-T-U-C-K!"
My brain had been trying to figure out what to do in those few horrifying seconds, but it wasn't until her third proclamation that I actually got us both untangled and on our way out of the room -- so quickly her little legs were skittering like the cartoon roadrunner's to keep up. All the way out of the room she repeated the same phrase -- right into the next room that, conveniently, had the echo of a cathedral -- and into the bathroom. It was in the also echo-y bathroom that I explained in near-hysterical tones that we don't talk about what our underwear is doing when we are in public.
She seemed to accept the explanation and was fine once we got her panties on right-way-round. I actually took her back in there for the craft-time, though I was giddy with withheld laughter, so, thankfully, we have some lovely paper-plate dragonflies in our kitchen to remind of us the festivities.
