Geekster and I are trying hard to reduce the stress and overwhelming feeling that there is always something that needs managing, controlling, doing or fixing in our household. Since we're both high strung people (Me? High strung? Who would have guessed?) and would like our hearts to last more than another 20 years, we've decided to slow things down a little. Fewer non-essential commitments, fewer non-essential expenses, and more time as a family.

That's do-able, right? It's not like we're chasing the proverbial dragon of parenting, are we? Surely all those other families out there are managing to find a perfect balance in their lives, so why can't we? As far as I can tell, we're the only over-committed, under-funded and time-stretched people out there.

(Quick! Wipe the coffee spit off your keyboard before it damages it!)

One of the ways to reduce our expenses and increase quality family time is to go to the library. Name one thing about going into a quiet book-lending establishment that isn't mellow and happy.

Can't think of one? I can: His name is Spawnling and, since he's not quite three yet, he is sucking the life out of what's left of his Terrible Terrific Twos.

This was not Spawn's first experience with the library. It was probably the third in his recent memory, and I think that's why things ended up the way they did. He needs to acquire a certain level of familiarity with his surroundings before the horns come out. It's a sign of high intelligence, I tell myself - and a dash of brattiness, which is the not-so-secret secret ingredient in Meltdown Souffle.

I have to admit that a lot of this is my fault. See, I decided we should go to the library yesterday afternoon; not morning, not at lunch time and not the next day. Oh, no. It had to be at 3:30PM, when the no-longer-napping entity is at his emotional worst. Why, you ask? Because I had things to do first, and was using a book-borrowing trip as a bribe for good behaviour. I'm all about rewarding good behaviour. But, that bad behaviour stuff? I don't tolerate any of that.

Nope. None at all. Observe:

Everything was going swimmingly at first. I was exceedingly proud of my parenting skills as the gremlins eagerly picked out book after book, sitting down to read some in the kids' section with a stack to bring home with them afterward. I saw a mom from Gutsy's old preschool with her two boys and smiled at her in that 'You have nice, quiet, literate boys and I have nice, quiet, literate boys because we're both awesome mothers' sort of way.

The second thing I did wrong: we overstayed our cosmic welcome. People who swim with sharks don't tread water all day with dozens of toothy limb-munchers swimming around them. They wave some food around, take some video footage of them not dying, and get out before the bucket of meat is empty. Because, eventually, those overgrown fish would take a big, juicy piece of foot. It's not their fault; that's just what sharks do.

And, just like carnivorous salt water dwellers, toddlers have their own time limit. There is only so much good energy to go around in public situations, and you need to take advantage of it in as short a time as possible. If I bring my children to the mall, I conduct a 'get in and get out' operation; there is no window shopping or bargain hunting going on. I know what I need and I acquire it as quickly as I can before I end up with someone sobbing, running, kicking or breaking things. I know this from experience - traumatic, panic-inducing experience. So, why didn't I listen to my Inner Maven yesterday?

Anyway, we had our books, we had our DVD's, and we had our well-behaved children. We were in the check-out line when I asked Geekster if he could take out Spawn's movie on his card.

"Here, Spawnling. I'm just going to put this on my card and you can take out the books with mom, okay?" said a smiling Geekster.

"YOU TOOK MY MOVIE!" wailed Spawnling. He went from zero to screaming in less than a second. It was very impressive. "YOU TOOK IT!"

I rushed in to calm the toddler wonder, who had already thrown himself on the floor. I balanced the stack of books I was holding precariously as I bent down to soothe him. We were next in line, but the computer was apparently misbehaving and every book scanned was taking an excruciatingly long time.

"Spawnling, honey, it's okay. Daddy is just getting the movie, but you can have it in the van." I smiled down at him lovingly, soothingly, like a good mother does.

"NO! I WANT MY MOVIE, STUPID MOM! I'M GOING TO BREAK ALL THE BOOKS IN THE LIBRARY!"

That's, like, a bomb threat to a librarian. Heads shot up from stacks of books like prairie dogs in the in a field.

I glanced behind me to see the preschool mom and her children, who were obviously bewildered by the verbally explosive Tasmanian devil before them. I was expecting her to usher them silently out the door.

Scan. Bleep. Scan. Scan-scan-scan. Bleep. Scan. Scan-scan. Bleep.

The computer was still glitchy, the librarians were on high alert due to my child's threats, and I was about to tell the guy ahead of us that he reads too much and obviously needs to get a life.

"No. You won't break the books, Spawnling. Now, get up and we'll go borrow your books, okay?"

"NO! I WON'T! YOU'RE STUPID, STUPID MOM! I WANT MY MOVIE!"

There are many things I could have done at that point. I could have put the handful of books down, picked Spawnling up and left the library. I could have given the books to Geekster, picked Spawnling up, and left the library. I could have picked Spawnling up, directed him towards the nearest stack of books, and made a neat YouTube video.

But I did none of those things. In fact, I did a terrible, terrible thing. I put the books down, thought about leaving, realized I had spent over half an hour painstakingly picking out those books for my kids, decided not to leave, and gave him the movie back to make him stop screaming.

I know. I know. I did say it as a terrible thing, though, didn't I? I forewarned my readers of an impending bad choice. Now quit rolling your eyes and let me finish my story, will you?

One would assume that, once a toddler acquires what it is he was so adamant about acquiring, he would stop his fit and be happy. This is a good theory up to a point. However, once the complex math equation of Length of Fit x Exhaustion + Public Location = Outcome is examined, it comes as no surprise that a point of no return can be reached.

This, I'm afraid, was one of those times.

The Smurfs DVD case was thrown down on the floor, followed closely by Spawnling's body as he wailed, beet red, and pounded the carpet. Lovely.

And that's when I took him out of the library and showed him who's boss. And that's when I picked him up and let him keep yelling in my arms until he settled down. It was probably only less than a minute, but it felt like an eternity. An embarrassing eternity.

We made it up to the check-out and I had him apologize to the librarian behind the counter for disrupting her quiet library. Through the post-tantrum gasps for air, he said, in his most adorable voice, 'I very sorry'. We then got his books, his floor movie, and made it out the door, alive. Stressed, but alive.

The moral of the story, I suppose, is this: You can misbehave and still get what you want.

Oh, and that even I'm not perfect, despite what you may think.

I'm glad I could make everyone feel a lot better about their own parenting. You'll find a lot of that here, and you're welcome. It's one of the many things I'm good at.