Librarians, Hot Moms, Weird Guy, & Baby And Me

Librarians, Hot Moms, Weird Guy, & Baby And Me

What the hell is the point of taking my illiterate ten month old baby to a story hour at the library? Could he possibly learn a new word from some great modern baby literature that the wonderfully oversized librarian is joyfully reciting? Perhaps he will meet a little hotty and ask her out for some bottled milk and pureed yellow squash. Because, there sure are plenty of little hotties there for him to schmooze with, if he knew how. All he does is stare and drool, sort of like his dad use to do. I said use to, Lilly. Use to.

Some of these kids actually seem to be paying attention to the librarian’s flamboyant drama-twinky inspired miming and silly cardboard-book reading. She lies somewhere in between morbidly obese and pleasantly plump, although more plump than pleasant. The kids were enthralled with her dramatic display. She stands up when she sings the songs. While stomping her feet to the playful song the babies all stare in awe and bewilderment. Although, I think perhaps that considering all these kids were recently weaned off their mother’s teats, they are drooling over her mammoth sized breasts bouncing to and fro rather than her story telling skills. Hmm, sounds familiar too.



Why should I feel guilty for making friends with the hot chick sitting next to me on the floor? This is what me and Lilly expected going into this. Me staying at home comes with responsibilities, and a price. Meeting all the other parents, setting up friends for our boy, hanging with the other stay at home parents, and making my own friends along the way. It’s all part of having kids. But what happens when all the other stay at home parents are of the female, species? We knew that most of them would be women. So I need to rid the thoughts of her being hot from my brain so it doesn’t cloud my judgment, and just go ahead and ask for her number based solely on the fact that her kid would be a perfect match with my kid. What? Am I supposed to only try and hang out with the ugly moms? Well, just as I am color blind, I am now beauty blind.



Me and the hot mom, I mean the maternal being next to me, are both trying to keep our little ones under some form of respectable control as the librarian reads. We exchange a few pleasantries as the current bored-book story reaches its climax. Mr Pants can’t stop staring at her six month old cutie putootie daughter, so I say, “Looks like he’s giving her the googly eyes.” She offers me a courtesy laugh, and formally introduces her daughter to her future boyfriend.

There’s another hot momma just in front and to the left of me. I sort of positioned myself in between, but more so, behind two moms. I didn’t want to get too close to the other moms in case I reached out and started getting phone numbers prematurely without properly screening them for sanity. She keeps looking back at my boy as her son has been staring at him the entire time. She also keeps stuffing the tail of her small shirt into her low cut tight fitted pants, which was showing off her plumbers crack wonderfully. Finally, her embarrassment becomes palpable, and my tongue, once again as often happens in social situations, becomes loosened. I have a very dry and witty humor, often pulling sarcastic one-liners out of thin air in social situations. Occasionally, or often, they get me in trouble. So the next time she reaches towards her rear to once again cover up her crack I whisper softly to her, “Oh that’s okay, he doesn’t mind,’ referring to my son. As if she wasn’t already embarrassed enough I had to go and point it out. Dam, women are much more sensitive than guys. You don’t go around pointing things out like that. Its simple things like this that will surely get me in plenty of trouble in the future. The hot rock-a-billy tattooed girl next to me starts laughing out loud. I can’t wipe the smirk off my face either. ‘Sorry,’ she said as her head shrunk into her shoulders, quickly stuffed her shirt back down into her low cut jeans and promptly spun back around. Well, I’m definitely not exchanging numbers with her for a play date.



The first time I went, there were twenty or so parent child combos spread throughout the massive kids section of the library. I noticed a man and his baby. One man, all of the rest were moms. I made a b-line to a seat near him. It’s not that I am scared to hang out with the chicks, but I might as well get to know the dude first.

It’s funny how I tend to introduce my baby rather than myself now. And I notice other parents with babies do this as well. But that suits me fine. It’s all about the kids anyway, right? These kids that can’t talk, can’t walk, or can’t even hold their head up straight. So of course it’s all about the kids. It couldn’t possibly be that none of my friends have kids, so I need to go to the library to meet up with total strangers and their snarling toofless terrors to get some adult conversation time in for me.



While chatting with the other father I quickly realize that something is not quite right with him. First I realize that he is very shy. And no, he’s not just being evasive towards me specifically. When he speaks he keeps averting his gaze down towards the floor, and his voice tends to slowly fade off into the distance as if he is unsure of what he’s saying. From a distance he seemed to be well put together, but I soon discovered that he doesn’t really care about his appearance. His teeth were golden. Golden yellow. More like a mellow yellow from Crayola. Big, bright, and buttery in between the cracks. If I had a knife I could have made some toast. Sure, I can understand that a parent with a baby doesn’t always find the time to find a shirt that doesn’t have puke marks on it, or their hair is a tad in disarray. But he was wearing a three buttoned collared shirt with all three buttons undone and his wiry chest hair was flying out. And the shirt was peach. Peach? Come on dude, I don’t even know what to say about that. And his shoes were Velcro. Two large strips of Velcro lapped right over the tops, with the excess flaps edges curling up. And not the new 80’s style shoes that are coming back into style, but the pay-less grandpa style, all solid black. The ones old timers wear who could care less because death is at their door anyway. And just because I was married two weeks ago, I now notice, for the first time ever, when someone with a kid doesn’t have a ring on their finger. A guy with a baby, and he’s not even married. What a low-life loser. Who would ever get some chick knocked up without being married first? Ahem. So when the librarian called us in the back room for story time, I made sure to find a new friend to sit next to. The only guy there, and he turns out to be a full on geek. Hell, I can be a nerd sometimes too, but this guy was some other species entirely. But then the thought occurred to me: what if that’s what staying at home to raise your kids does to a man? Then I begin to question and doubt my own self. Are all the guys that stay at home as abnormal and anti-social as this guy? Am I?