Born Again

I'm pregnant.

Again.

Happens close to five days a week. In addition to shortened gestation periods, I also give birth. Monday through Friday. To litters. Litters of new books. And I love it.

When I explain to people that my job is as a "cataloging librarian", I am usually greeted with a quizzical look. Unless you work in this field, you have probably never heard of the term "Marc Record", don't know the biographical history of Melvil Dewey, or sing the daily praises of Charles Cutter. However, if you've ever BEEN in a library, or better yet, remember your fifth grade lesson on the fabulous Dewey Decimal System, then you know that each book is carefully annotated with complex codings in order to ensure it a proper home on the shelves. That's where I come in.

My litters of new book often arrive still smelling of fresh ink. Sometimes, the pages are still stuck together, and I know that I'm the first person who has had the chance to open this book. I consider this the breathe of life. I read almost each and every flap cover, and give it a cursory once over for misprints, strange pagination, or other weird ailments. Usually, a book caught early can be resuscitated through the wonders of the "no charge replacement". But, a book with a birth defect caught too late can spend an entire lifetime with its disease. And after a brief time, there is no cure.

Once I have ingested the personality of my newborn, I need to assign it a proper home. You see, I'm merely just a foster mother - the guardian responsible for finding it proper placement in the many stacks and branches our library holds. I carefully consider the content and themes of my baby, often consulting with neighbors and peers to see where the placement of similar personalities has taken place. For really difficult children, I sometimes need to consult with the mothership - more commonly known as the Library of Congress - to see where they have placed similar children of the same origin. Once I have arrived at a decision, my infant is stamped with a name, or as we professionals like to call it, a "call number". Chances are for most of the books, it is the same call number it will have it's whole life. Some quick computer coding, a barcode, tape, and my newborn is off to begin her life among the stacks. She'll never be as pretty as the day she left my hands, but all I can do is hope that she'll withstand the masses needing only little repair along the way.

Alas, I am more than just a Book Mother. I am also the Book Grim Reaper. My cubicle often doubles as a graveyard, and when the Messenger of Death delivers upon me a book in such a sad state that it cannot be repaired, it is up to me to wave my scythe and put my book out of its misery. Sometimes they are old and tattered. Sometimes they were young and poorly made. Occasionally, they have fallen victim to an abusive lender (oh, I long for the day I can get my hand on one of THOSE people ...). Either way, they are euthanized with care and concern, and the hope that their words touched someone in someway, no matter what the subject matter.

In any given day, that's what I do. I take pride in my work and knowing that because of my effort, someone - somewhere, is finding what they needed. Maybe it's the book that changed their life. Maybe it's the book that gave them hope again. Maybe it's the book that made them smile when they hadn't all day or all week. I'm the Book Baby Mamma, and I love it.