Book Rage

We are missing a library book.

I have checked everywhere it would be reasonable for a book to be…under beds, mixed in with our other books, between the couch cushions.

I have checked many places it would be unreasonable for a book to be… amidst the clean, folded towels in the bathroom, in the bench where we store shoes, in the pile of clothes to be sent to St. Vincent DePaul’s.

Nothing.

Missing library books make me FURIOUS. I get into some sort of Hulk-ish rage where I’m storming around the house muttering to myself as I tear things apart. I have actually roared during these rages. (Don’t worry, it’s not a roar directed at anyone…just an exclamatory roar.)

It’s not a healthy thing. This book raging. But I can’t stop until it’s found. Or until I get distracted. But once I remember again- – seriously, go hide.

Part of my problem is that with kids, especially a 3 year old, no place is off limits as far as where the book might be. It could be tucked in with our Christmas decorations. It could be in a kitchen cupboard behind the bowls we only use for company. It could be under the oven. The only reason I know it’s not IN the oven is because I’ve used it in the last three weeks that we’ve had the book.

Honestly, the only way to find it is to go through every room, every closet, every nook and cranny of the house. Effectively I need to touch everything we own in order to ensure it’s not hiding somehow. How’s that for motivation to go minimalist.

I’ve interrogated.
I’ve bribed the kids with increasingly better prizes– a treat, a movie, a pony.
And finally, I’ve threatened to never check out another book from the library again.

This strikes fear into their hearts. If they had any information about the whereabouts of this book, they would squeal. They would spill the beans. They might be able to ignore my raging, but they can’t ignore the threat of No Books Ever Again.

I keep trying to think of the weirdest places it might be–

In the piano
Behind the coconut oil in the pantry
In my own underwear drawer
Behind a picture hanging on the wall

In the past we’ve eventually found the missing items after my raging…all but once. Well, actually we found that one thing after I paid the library to replace it. So technically we’ve found everything we’ve ever checked out. Until now.

I’m feeling greener just thinking about it.
In writing this all out, I’m forced to ask, why does it bother me so much?

-I used to work in a library. So I have a special place in my heart for the library and the way it works.
-I value responsibility, and losing a library book is very irresponsible.
-We are on a tight budget, and paying full price for some dumb children’s book I wouldn’t have bought in the first place hurts.

Ultimately, it shouldn’t be that hard to keep track of a couple library books. If we regularly lose library books, it’s an admission that life is out of control. And in my mind that means our family is one step away from a life of roasting squirrels over an open fire in front of a tent in the woods. For our life. All the time.

I can’t handle roasting squirrels, people.

I do have one last weapon against the lost library book, though.
My mom and St. Anthony.

My mom is the best at finding things. Wallets, keys, homework were all found by her tight relationship with St. Anthony when I was growing up.

Here’s a prime example of how this has worked: The morning we were leaving for the airport to go on our honeymoon, I couldn’t find my passport. David and I searched everywhere. Everywhere. And at 4:00 in the morning I gave in and called my mom. She told me where to look, and it was there. It was in a place I know I searched. She and St. Anthony found my passport from a state away.

Why haven’t I called her yet? Because I want to do it myself. Because I don’t want to be irresponsible. Because I don’t want my mom to know my house and life are out of control, and we’re practically living like a band of wild gorillas here.

Pride. Losing library books makes me angry because of pride.

Sigh. I’m feeling less green than before. Now that I’ve figured out why it bothers me so much.

Okay, pride. Here’s what we’re going to do.

I will call my mom and ask for her prayers to help find the missing book. (I’ll leave out the part about squirrels, though. She already knows I tend to jump to worst case scenario.)

And–if my mom and St. Anthony don’t come through, I’ll humbly pay the library. I’m not in control. I am irresponsible. And it’s okay.

Thanks, blogland, for helping me figure myself out.  And thanks, kids, for being terrible searchers so I didn’t actually have to buy a pony.