When a trip to the library is so much more than just an errand

It has been warm; 80 degrees around noon, and dry just like I like it. The arid nights cool off quickly after the sun goes down, and if I close my eyes I imagine I can smell the desert that my neighborhood used to be. Technically, it's still a desert. We've just covered it over with concrete and fertilizer and grass seed as far as the eye can see.

So, just as the sun was starting to play in shadows over the hills behind our house (which are NOT covered in concrete or fertilizer or grass and are BEAUTIFUL in their natural nakedness) Eden and I decided to go to the library, as it is open late on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I had a copy of Animal, Vegetable, Miracle waiting for me on the reserve shelf, and I had promised Eden we could pick up some new Elmo's World movies.

"a-HA!  a-HA! a-HAAA!" says Eden as she finds my shoes. My wallet. Her jacket. I throw on my sandals (sandals in February are one of the reasons I love San Diego) and we head out to the car. There's a light, warm breeze that hugs us as we walk out to the car together.

I have noticed a special relationship between Eden and I lately. A comaraderie of sorts. I felt it again on our way out to the car. The beautiful weather and the anticipation of our unscheduled trip had us both in a happy, expectant mood, and she babbled along to me as we sauntered our way out to the car. I still can't tell what she's saying, usually. But she seems to appreciate my acting interested in her attempts to communicate, so I happily nod my head and say, "of course," "yes," mmmhmmmm," and "really?"

Tonight she was especially proud of herself because she had figured out how to zip and unzip the money pocket on the outside of my wallet. "Muh-yee, muh-yee," she states. "Yes, money," I reply.

We get in the car and I roll down the windows, drinking in the evening and unwilling to part from it inside the confines of my car windows even for the short trip to the library. On the way we spot a fire engine, and two busses. "Weeeee--ooooo---oohhh--ooooooo--ooooooo!!!" Eden sings from the back of the car, my wallet in tow. She's got the fire engine sound down pat. Living next to a fire station will do that to you, I guess.

a-HA! says Eden as we pull up to the library. I grab her backpack and set her down to walk next to me. She tucks her little hand into mine. She's wearing a snug pink t-shirt and a little jean skirt with pink ruffles on it that Grandma J. bought her. As I look down at her I see only her thrill for the moment, happy to be with me, to be running along beside me, and looking forward to finding Elmo. "Mel-Mo?" "Mel-Mo? "Yes, let's go find Elmo." I reply. She starts running toward the door. I think my heart just melted and ran down my leg.

We walk in the door and I'm immediately enveloped by an entirely different, but equally transfixing, atmosphere. I love the library. I love the smell of dusty books. The hushed rustle of paper, soft voices. The long, inviting shelves full of stories and experiences and information all waiting to be discovered. Not many generations ago I may have only had access to several books my entire life. Now, I have thousands at my beck and call, and infinitely more information available online. The thought of it makes me giddy.

"Let's go get Mama's book, first," I suggest, and Eden toddles off in front of me over to the hold shelves that I've pointed to. I see the librarians cast glances at her and smile. A mom walks by and smiles, too. "HI!" Eden says cheerily at the top of her voice. "Hi," they reply, their grins growing wider across their faces. I can't help but smile, too. How cute is my daughter, running through the library, ruffles bouncing at each step, owning every inch of her little world and loving every minute of it.

As luck would have it, a book I'd ordered for her is on the shelf, too. It's about busses (of course) and she squeals when I hand it to her. But it's forgotten quickly as soon as she remembers her own reason for coming. "MEL-MO?!?" she yells. "Okay, okay, okay, follow me, I'll show you where Elmo is," I say, hoping the smiles she passed out earlier keep us in good graces despite the yelling.

In the kids section we find a few books, find a few dvds (with her standing on the stool "looking" through all the DVDs for Elmo ones, of course) and then she tries out another stanchion of her vocabulary. "Buy? Buy? Buy. Buy!" she asks in a steady stream, holding up "Elmo Loves Christmas" or something like that. The mom behind us looks over her shoulder and laughs. Everyone laughs when Eden says "buy." Of course, what Eden means is "Okay-I-Like-This-One-And-I-Want-To-Take-It-To-That-Cool-Scanner-That-Beeps-Can-We-Take-It-There-Mama-Please-Now-So-I-Can-Take-This-Home-I-Found-What-I-Want-I'm-Ready-Mama-COME!" but what everyone else hears is the cutest little materialstic demand they've ever heard from someone too small to even open the automatic doors.

So we go "buy" the books, and I launch into some soliloquy about how it's not called "buy" at the library, it's called "lend" because we bring them back, but then I realize she's more interested in the scanner and I realize how much I love her and can't imagine what life was like before she came.

We grab our books and head out the door and she can't decide which dvd or book to look at first, and keeps exchanging which one she's holding. She finally decides it would be easier to hold them all at once if I am holding her, so I pick her up and we march back to the car. It's dark now, and part of me wishes I hadn't been inside during nightfall. But as I look down at Eden and see her living in the moment I realize there really is no room for silly regrets like that and decide I'll live in this moment, too.

Right now.

In the twilight.

In the car with my little girl, on our way home to read books and watch Mel-Mo.