True Confessions of a Library Vandal

I have a confession to make.

I behaved badly last week.

Okay, so I probably behaved badly more than once last week, but this time was particularly bad. And also, it had consequences. My bad behaviour is going to cost me money. Not a lot of money, but money no less.

The other upshot of my uppity actions: I have besmirched a local establishment I and my children frequent often, and hold in high regard. Besmirched, I say.

The place I have besmirched is the library.

Here’s what happened:

You may recall there were a few rainy, windy, crappy days last week. And while I know in my last post I preached the benefits of gratefulness and not making a big deal out of the small stuff when the alternative is being buried under a pile of rubble, on this particular windy, stormy day, I wasn’t feeling especially grateful. The kids had runny noses (and have had runny noses, it seems, for the past month, with no end to the snot storm in sight), the wind was buffeting us down the street at an alarming rate, I feared an errant tree branch was going to be the end of us all, we were freezing, some of us were crying, and we had one last errand to run before we’d finally be able to return to the safety of home for a nice, warm lunch.

Our final task on this blustery day: We had library items to return. Books and a CD.
I pulled up to the library, scooted the stroller up the ramp, and attempted to open the book-return drop box on the lower level of the building. But the box was locked.

I jiggled it, annoyed. Definitely locked.

Which is when I noticed the cloth bag I was holding, containing said (already late) library items slated for return, was dripping.

I reached inside. Everything was soaked. An errant sippy cup had made it’s way into the bag and leaked its water contents all over everything.

Damn it.

"Poop," I said aloud.

"Poop," my son repeated with a laugh. (We recently had an f-word incident so are working very hard around our house to clean up our potty mouths so my son will stop, for the love of God, saying at every possible opportunity, "We CAN'T say FUCK, Mama. FUCK is a bad word.")

While the wind continued to howl and rage, I removed all items from the bag and wiped them with my coat. They were just a little damp, nothing a few wipes wouldn’t cure.
Except for the CD -- which was called Healthy Kidz, by the way, and was so lame we’d nixed it as a family in favour of some Pretenders (Maia’s new favourite band; you should see her kick it to Back on the Chain Gang). The water had leaked into the case and soaked the liner notes. Although the CD itself was fine (still lame, but fine) no amount of wiping could hide the fact that someone had wet the CD case. Besmirched it, if you will, with an unknown substance.

Oh how I wished the drop box wasn’t locked.

Oh how I didn’t want to have to plunk my pathetic wet CD case in front of the librarian and see the judgement in her eyes.

Another gust of wind blew off my son’s hat. I ran down the ramp to retrive it while he laughed and shouted "Poop!" into the wind.

By this time I was feeling annoyed. Okay, not just annoyed. I was feeling downright indignant. I’m a taxpayer, dammit, I was thinking. I pay taxes – and, if I’m being honest, far too many library late fees -- so that things like book return drop boxes will be bloody well open when I need them to be open, in order to avoid pulling my unwieldy stroller all the way into the library, loading it and the kids onto the elevator, going up the elevator and handing my (wet, damn it, damn it, damn it) books and CD to the librarian! Why the hell isn’t the drop box open?! Why, I beseech you?!

(When I'm angry, my inner voice tends to become extremely wordy and drama-queeny.)
So I parked the stroller and ran through the glass doors of the library, then shouted up at the librarian, who was at the top of the stairs behind her counter.

“Why,” I shouted, my hair flying out everywhere, an angry expression on my red face, “isn’t the drop box open?!”
“Because,” she replied coolly. “It’s only open when the library is closed. And the library is open right now."

Like I was stupid or something.

And I wasn't the stupid one. The library was the stupid one!

“Well, that’s stupid,” I shouted. “Even Blockbuster keeps their drop-box open all day and taxpayers aren’t even paying for that drop box.” (Listen, I told you: I behaved badly. I didn’t say I was proud of myself.)

The librarian didn’t respond. She gave me a very judgmental look. It made me angrier.
I stormed out the door, grabbed my library books, pulled the kids inside the library – making a big show about how difficult it was to pull the stroller through the doors with all the wind – parked them at the bottom of the stairs, stomped up the stairs, and dumped my books and (wet) CD in front of the librarian.

Then I ran away before she noticed that everything was damp.

Heading for home, I felt ashamed already. I mean, the librarian herself probably hadn’t made the decision that the drop box was to stay closed during library hours. And it probably wasn’t a calculated attempt to burn idiots like me who spill their kids’ water all over their stuff.

What was I thinking, being such a cow? I let my temper get the better of me. I yelled at the librarian. I stomped around the library. Library's are quiet, nice places. Quiet, nice places with books.

I probably shouldn’t have been surprised today when I got a notice in the mail from the library informing me (or, more accurately, informing my son, whose library card the items were taken out on, for shame) that I owe $15.98. For the damage of the Healthy Kidz CD, natch.

Part of me wanted to stomp over to the library and say, “Come on, people, the CD wasn’t damaged, the liner notes were wet, that's all! Geez! Half the stuff we take out of the library looks like it's been chewed by a pit bull before we even get a chance to chew on it ourselves!"

But another part of me knew this notice probably never would have arrived if I hadn’t behaved so badly.

If I'd been nice, if I'd explained to the librarian what had happened, if I'd apologized for wetting something that wasn't mine, things probably would have turned out differently. Even if the CD was damaged -- which I am SO sure it wasn’t by the way (and yes, I do have a thing about being right even when I know I’m wrong) -- the librarian might have decided to go easy on me and not make me pay for the lame CD that probably came free with a box of cereal.

Instead, I stomped, I yelled, I potentially wrecked her morning.

I have to pay the $15.98.

While I’m not saying I’m never going to let my temper get the better of me again - I'm me, after all, and not always the cooleset customer on the block - I am saying I learned a lesson. It's a pretty basic one: It's always nice to be nice. In the immortal words of the Stone Roses, Love Spreads. Plus, if I had been nice, I would have been setting a better example for my children, too. Because they are (the f-word incident being a case in point) watching and listening.

Poop.

xoMarissa