Oh. My. God.

Well, Wilder and I just returned from our first Toddler Time session at the local library. I signed up for it on a whim last week. I'm not a "joiner" -- never have been. But something about parenthood makes you temporarily insane -- a condition that leads you to believe you and your kiddo must hang out with those in both your peer groups. You know, complete strangers. Let the fun begin!

Yeah. Right.

In a room of complete strangers, you do not want to have the child who behaves like a crack baby. I have no idea what came over him. I mean, he's a very exuberant kid. He runs full-speed at life, and I love and admire that about him. But today we walked in that room, and it was like he snuck eight cups of coffee and perhaps an illegal narcotic or two somewhere between home and the library.

To make matters worse, all but one other mom and dad in there had a sweet, dress-clad, well-behaved little girl who sat quietly at her mother or father's side or in their lap. It's like they couldn't see the toys around the room that my son clearly COULD NOT WAIT TO GET HIS HANDS ON. OK, there was one other boy, but he wasn't smokin' from the same pipe my kid had, apparently.

Wilder had fun, no doubt. He was positively vibrating with excitement. I ran around after him trying to do what the lady in charge of the class told me to do. She said I should talk to him all day. "When you're at the grocery store," she encouraged, "pick up a can of green beans and say, 'These are green beans,' and continue to do that around the clock, until you're sick of hearing yourself talk." This lady clearly does not know me. I am not what you'd call the "perky" or "chatty" type. Still, I tried. And I imagine it was easy for the other moms, whose daughters were delicately picking through the toys while their mommies looked at me as if to say, "Do you keep him in a cage or what?!" But when your son is moving at 80 mph, it's difficult to verbally keep up with him. He'd pick up a puffball. "That's soft, isn't it kiddo?" I'd inquire. A red puffball. "Look hon," I'd continue. "It's re ...." And OFF he'd fly, to kick a ball or pick up a book or run to the door or shake a tambourine or rock the 2-month-old in his carrier or climb a chair or or or or ... My poor tired mother-of-a-runaway-train-boychild brain could not keep up.

I was the only mom who broke a sweat. Not joking.

I don't know if we'll go back. We probably will, at least once, just to see if there's a repeat performance, and because he clearly had such a fine time. I just don't know that I can take many more weeks of those women looking at me like I feed my son sugar cubes and keep him locked in the house.

Sigh. I'm exhausted. Thanks, blog peeps, for letting me vent.