Yesterday The Tibbles invaded Supergenius HQ. It’s MEA and there’s no school for most of the week. As I rushed through the work I had to do as quickly as possible they: ate donut holes and drank orange juice; played Angry Birds on the TV; watched one episode of “The Addams Family;” recreated the Washburn Mill explosion using wooden blocks; created bizarre hatchet-shaped weaponry using white paper and a stapler; played outside for 12 minutes; and finally declared they were BORED.
So bored, in fact, they were probably going to die from boredom any minute.
Lucky for them I had just hit post and was shutting the lid on Enid, my computer. A mighty roar went through the Tibble crowd when I said, “Let’s clear off the table and do some crafts.”
If it’s one thing The Tibbles love, it’s crafts.
Of course the caveat there was “clear off the table.” My dining room table is hardly ever used for actual dining and is used more as a place to pile junk that I am too lazy to put away. It’s usually the resting place for anything I have in my hands when I come home. And for all the books I’ve finished reading and haven’t jammed into the stuffed bookcase. And half-empty cups of coffee. And my reusable grocery bags. And I’m sure you get the picture. I live in squalor.
So we set to clearing the table and as Liam, a bratty, opinionated six-year-old boy, is wont to do he provided color commentary on every not-supposed-to-be-there object he touched.
“Eh, another boring book,” he said putting it on the shelf. “Eh, a purple pen. Eh, a Twins bag. Eh, another boring book.”
“Here,” I said. “Hand it to me.” I was closer to the bookcase at this point.
Liam started handing the book to me and stopped. “Oh wait. This one could be cool.” His fingers traced the glowing mushrooms on the cover. “Is it creepy?”
“It’s super creepy,” I said. “My friend Kurtis wrote it.” I hoped to impress him with the fact that I knew people who wrote books.
Liam flipped open the cover and turned a few pages. “Oh,” he said disappointed. “It’s a chapter book. There’s no pictures.”
“You and your mom could read it together,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “You should tell your friend to write a creepy book with pictures.”
“I will,” I said.
“Kids like creepy books with pictures.”
“Okay, I’ll tell him.”
There must have been something in my tone that was dismissive or distracted, because Liam shouted, “KIDS LOVE CREEPY BOOKS WITH PICTURES AND NOBODY MAKES CREEPY BOOKS WITH PICTURES AND WE NEED CREEPY BOOKS WITH PICTURES SO TELL YOUR FRIEND TO MAKE ONE JUST LIKE THIS.” He shook The Tanglewood Terror at me.
“Okay, okay, I will. I promise.”