Boundaries

Recently, my mom took Alison to the library – two book worms, engrossed in words – one of their favorite activities.

They came home earlier than expected, and my mom said it was either that, or barf on the library floor.

It seems there was a girl child, somewhere between Blythe’s age (3) and Alison’s (6) who was sent to the children’s section of the library for some “alone time” while her guardian – whoever that may have been, for that person never made an appearance in the hour they were there – attended to other things in the adult section of the library.

Don’t even get me started on that, by the way.  A 4 or 5 year old child, left to her own devices in the children’s section of the library, for an hour or more?  It’s something I cannot fathom.

Anyway, the child in question did not know how to read.  She saw my mom and Alison reading books, and asked my mom, obviously a Grandma but no less a stranger, to read her a Sponge Bob book. 

My mom looked around for her guardian, and saw no one.  Since Alison is beyond needing to be read to, and the child looked at her with pleading eyes, she agreed.

The little girl proceeded to crawl up into a hesitant stranger’s lap for story time.

At first, my mom didn’t mind.  But as they read, the child’s fingers wandered to her nostrils.  The further the girl’s finger went into her nose, the more uncomfortable my mom got.  She has never been one to tolerate nose picking.  But what do you say to a child you don’t even know about the hazards of boogar picking?

The child pointed to Sponge Bob with the nose-picking finger, and my  mom suppressed a gag.  She was touching books, the same books her grandchildren read, with a boogar-laced finger.

Since my mom couldn’t gag and read aloud at the same time, the child grew impatient, and began to rub her snotty finger on my mom’s leg, begging her to continue reading.

Thankfully, it was a fairly short book, and my mom got through it without actually vomiting on the child or the library carpet.  The little girl announced her need to pee, and ran off to the bathroom – again with no guardian in sight.

My mom looked at Alison, engrossed in a book. 

“Pssst” she whispered. 

Alison looked at her.

“We need to get out of here right now.”

“But I’m not done with my book,” Alison replied.

My mom looked at the clock.  She had three to five minutes, at best, to get the hell out of there before the nose-picker came back.

“We need to go now, Alison, and I’ll explain why in the car.”

Alison looked at her half-read book, unaware of my mom’s mounting panic.  “Can I just finish this one?”

My mom shook her head.  “I’ll take you to Burger King and get you a Kid’s Meal if you’ll walk away right this minute.”

Alison knew a good deal when she saw it.  They hightailed it out of there.

And in the car, my mom explained why they needed to leave while the child was in the bathroom. 

My mom, you see, was torn between a child that clearly needed some adult attention, and her own phobia of Other People’s Boogars.  Blythe’s boogars, Alison’s snot – those she can handle.  But some stranger kid’s nose pickings?  There is no way. 

She knew if they were still there when the little girl got back, she’d end up covered in them, because she simply cannot say, “no” to a sad little girl who wants to be read to.

And if she did, she knew that she’d continue to gag.  She saw no other choice but to run away.

When they got home, my mom immediately removed her boogary pants and put on clean ones. To my surprise, she didn’t burn them.  Because when I was a kid?  That’s exactly what she would have done.