It's Really Just a Small Loan

When they were five and three years old and every book caught their attention I had a rule -- if you could carry the books out, you could check them out. This worked for years, as their arms really never grew. Ever notice how dinosaurs arms are so much shorter than than the rest of their body? It's much the same for small children. But before I knew it, and before I had the energy to care, their arms grew, and their abilities to stretch their necks way over the books in their arms grew to proportions only a circus act could follow. But I, being the over-tired, homeschooling mom, allowed them to check them all out. I thought I was doing them a favor. After all, they were library books, were they not? What could go wrong with taking out an excessive amount of library books? How little did I know.

Before long their arms were long enough to reach around a high school track twice. The numbers were soaring. Generally speaking, we went to the library at least once a week, at the very least once every 10 days. But every once in a while, due to sickness, holidays, sheer neglect on my part, there would be a lapse in visits. And then.... well, then, you know what would happen. Ms. Librarian would come around with her little stamper that had that date that rolled up and down. It would re-ink itself when it came down. Remember those cards from the library when you had to actually sign the card out on your own name. Really and truly -- your own name. There was no mistaking you for your sister, your parents, the milkman. Nope, just you. And after a while, the libraries realized that this system didn't work and they needed to get up to speed and in this millinium. They had to become automated. It was horrid. And scary. But it worked. Those silly little library cards with the stickers on top that stated the title and author, and the call numbers of the Dewey Decimal system. Well, they were disbanded. Just tossed aside. There was the new and improved version. You merely had to scan your card and presto -- you took home all the library books you wanted.

For most people, this was great. It was a bit like scratching an itch that you just couldn't quite reach. You finally got it, and it felt good, but once you got it, you didn't put much more thought into it. Not my family. Not the homeschooling family with arms that went for miles. It was nothing short of a disaster.

It snuck up on us, actually. Casually, we took a couple of extra books out. No big deal. We deposited them into our library crate that had wheels and we toted home. It lived in the corner of the dining room. Books were removed and returned accordingly. We went merrily along our way.

For years. I mean, for years, we went on our way. Make a trip to the library. Two kids -- well, we'll take out twenty-five books. Wait, now we have three kids -- oops, take out fifty books. Oh no, we have four kids, and Mom's kind of feeling like she needs to escape into the realm of really cheesy romance novels -- take out one hundred books.

What? What?

Yup. One hundred books, and then a couple. This happened a few times. And, for a few times, it was fine. Take out the books. The books that needed to be renewed - hop online, renew them, and then in the appropriate manner, return said library books. Why -- this was a system an idiot could follow.

Until Mom had a mental breakdown. A literal mental breakdown. And then those one hundred books were late by four weeks. But, you know what happens when they're late for a month-- why that's fifty cents a day. Multiplied by one hundred. Well then, we have five hundred dollars. For most people, this would immediately cause them to break down the doors at the library and beg and plead and promise to not only not take out a library book, but to give them every child they ever had in their lineage. However, Mom was having a breakdown.

So, she got up one day. And she made breakfast. For all four kids. They laughed and they smiled. They talked about their day. They made an ever-loving mess in the living room. And then when Mom got sad, they knew to grab a book and read because Mom couldn't quite keep up with the laughter, and the chaos.

A year went by. Life was good. Mom found a decent doctor with some good thoughts, but not quite on target. And then Mom found a great doctor who diagnosed a serious illness. Up and down and round about they went, not unlike some of the Dr. Seuss books. Meds here, meds there, meds everywhere. But finally meds for breakfast, meds for dinner, and life was good. Really, really good. Mom made breakfast. She made lunch. She made dinner. She laughed. She sang. She homeschooled. She was thankful for the days that when the sun set she didn't feel the need to crawl under the covers and cry.

And then she was fined. For overdue library books. There were a few lost books in there. There are bound to be a few books lost when one takes out a hundred books. Regardless, there she was. And there was the library. But Mom was feeling good. So, she figured it out because that's what Mom's do. Even if it's just because the library wanted a letter from her doctor proving that Mom actually almost lost her soul to the demons inside. They needed proof that she wasn't fabricating her breakdown. That indeed she had truly lost her marbles, and had done so in public.

Ultimately, it's okay. Because Mom's still making breakfast, still reading crappy novels, among great ones. Her daughters are still loving reading. But she still has to fax that letter to the library to prove that she did have a mental breakdown, and didn't harbor over one hundred books in her home just to keep other patrons from borrowing the books. She has to prove that she wasn't fabricating her story, because a lot of people must use this story to get by the library system and the late fines. This too shall pass and she'll get over the humilation of having to send a doctor's note in for proof of library fines. She's weathered worse storms. This too shall pass, and really it's just a library and they're just doing their jobs. Their jobs of taking a book, scanning it under a blue light, plopping a library card in the pocket and handing it back. That's their job. She gets the job of watching her daughter's eyes light up when they find a great book, or hearing the slam of a cover when the books is disappointing.

Nonetheless, she gets the joy of reading it, sharing it, and laughing over it. Now that she can laugh again.