S and I went to toddler sing with J(f) and B this morning. We got there five minutes late cause B had to breast feed right before it was time to leave for the library. S and I were polite about it. The room was packed. There was no place to sit; our regular sitting place (on the carpet by the front) was taken by the boy with Down's syndrome and his mother. Our only options were to either stand by the wall where we were or sit on the staircase behind us. Before I could suggest the staircase option new stragglers hurried in and plopped their sippy cups and diaper bags on the steps. I didn't like them. J(f) felt bad about us being late and not having our usual sitting place. I told her not to worry about it; I'm one for politeness.

So we had missed "Good Morning To You" and they already were well into "The More We Get Together" by the time we had settled up against the wall in the back. I hadn't had this view of toddler sing in quite a while. When we first started coming to toddler sing, back before S could stand, walk, crumble to the floor in a fit because he's not allowed to play with the TV remote, we'd stand in the back by the radiator. Today seemed more crowded than usual. Kids, nannies, mothers, and nanas everywhere. The Who play Cincinnati flashed in my mind. S refused to be put down, probably because he wouldn't be able to see otherwise, but just as likely because he has contracted a clingy streak in certain public places. I've yet to outgrow that myself. Sometimes in subways I long for the hand of my mother. So stood I did with S in my arms and J (f) and B to my left apologizing and singing. We all tried to make the best of it. 'Cause your friends are my friends and my friends are your friends.

Halfway through "Open Shut Them" I felt a poke on my shoulder. It came from the hand of one of the people who stole the staircase steps from us.
"Could you move," she said, while with here hands she pretended to move a box in the direction she wanted S and I to go. You'll notice that there is a question mark missing after her "Could you move." It's not a mistake. She was pushy about it. Her tone suggested that we had stood in front of her. Whereas the truth was that she had sat behind us. But we moved; I'm one for politeness. I hated her, though. Just like little birdies let them fly up to the sky, sky, sky.

More songs went by. It was hard to do all the arm motions and stuff for the songs while holding Sam. My rendition of "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes" sucked donkey. Sam soon lost interest in the singing. Perhaps we were too far away from all the action, perhaps the coat hangers he discovered were actually that fascinating, who knows? Either way, by "She'll Be Comin' Round The Mountain" I was ready to leave. Not only were my legs stiff, but in the span of ten minutes that hag by the steps had asked three other people to move so she and her brood could see. I wanted to pound her. Oh we'll have to sleep with Grandma when she comes, snuggle-snuggle.

Before I could take a shiny metal coat hanger to the throat of the stairhag the librarians were leading the half-interested crowd in "The Goodbye Friends Song" and it was time to go. J(f) said she enjoyed it, and she was relieved B didn't have sensory overload from all the noise and people. Good for B. I'm prone to sensory overloads myself, so I know what drag that can be. I once strangled a man after coming out of a movie theater. I'd just seen Attack of the Clones and he was dressed up as Jar Jar Binks. I felt bad about it afterwards, but the lights in the lobby were so damn bright and my head was aching from that ear-rattling John Williams score that I had to put something out of its misery. Plus the fact that the guy asked if I felt the "force" in that inane Jar Jar Binks voice, and it wasn't that good of an impression---he sounded more like an effeminate, sober Bob Marley with a lisp--so you can't say he didn't have a little violence coming towards him in the end.