She wasn't the one who got upset, though. A little later on, the children's voices were climbing to even higher decibels while I was on the telephone with another patron. Suddenly, I felt myself channeling the spirit of a thousand librarians who came before me, and a quick "Shush!" came out of my mouth. It was barely audible; I think it was more of a wish on my part than a directive toward the kids. In fact, none of them even noticed. Another director did, though, and she gave me the dirtiest look that I've received in years. (Of course, that's not saying much; as a rule, I usually don't do much that earns me dirty looks, anyway.) She quieted the children with much more force than I myself had used, but seemed highly annoyed that I would have said anything to the kids.

I mean, really! How dare I? A librarian...quieting patrons? What on earth is the world coming to?

Those kids left behind great messes, too, such that as I was cleaning afterward, a little girl playing nearby said, "They were messy. I'm not. I'm just playing quietly and being good." I just grinned at her, the little show-off.

Speaking of showing off, I got to do a little of that myself this morning. An elderly woman was in the library, talking to another librarian, and she mentioned that she'd been searching for years for a story she read at age seven. It was a German folktale, supposedly, and she thought that the title was "The Hoerschvogel Stove." She had even been in Germany and had asked at the local libraries, but had no luck.

Our librarian looked, but couldn't find it, and decided to set the children's librarians on the case. Boss-Lady tried, then gave up, leaving it to me. I was fairly certain that we were spelling "Hoerschvogel" wrong, so I tried to break it apart and look up the meanings of potential constituent parts. Mind you, my only knowledge of the German language comes in snatches from various oratorios and operas ("Jawhol, Herr Hauptmann!"). Our dictionaries seemed to relate "Hoersch" to listening and "Vogel" to bird, so I did an internet search on "listening, bird, stove, and Germany." Miraculously, there it was: "The Nurmberg Stove," wherein the stove was named "Hirschvogel." I had no business being able to find that story with the terms I used, yet the Search Gods took pity upon me. I'll make sure to tithe extra this week.

Is it wrong to not want Eric's family to come visit? It's not that I don't like them; if we were able to go to West Virginia this weekend to visit them, I'd have been more than happy to do so. If we could have driven halfway and met them in Morgantown, I'd have been tickled pink. I just don't want them on my turf at the moment. I don't enjoy feeling like I have to be on company behavior in my own house, and I don't enjoy the odd sense of gratitude that seems to radiate from them, as if to say, "Thank you for letting us be in your presence. We'll pick up the tab for dinner in exchange for you letting us just sit and listen to the sound of our son's voice." I'm overreacting, probably by a great deal, but it's very difficult to put into words just why I feel ill at ease during their visits.

It's much easier when we're in their house. For starters, I don't have the constant voice in the back of my head reminding me that the unwashed dishes in my sink are making me look like a bad wife. I'm already prepared to be in "company mode," so I don't have to adjust my behavior by much. It's also easier for me to accept their urge to pay for everything when we're the guests. When I'm the host, I want to pay, and letting them do it feels rude.

Rita would be so heartbroken if she knew that I felt this way. I feel sad that that's the case, but at the moment, it's just how I feel. Perhaps the money is the biggest part of it. Would allowing us to at least pay for ourselves be so much to ask in return for letting me feel more comfortable about having them come to visit?

I only work at the reference desk once every few months, anyway. What I need is a workshop that tells you what to do when faced with a woman bound and determined to sign her first-grader up for the reading program, and he is just as determined to go the entire three months of summer without picking up a book. What sort of expression should one bear as mother and son bicker before you, growing louder and louder, as the preschool-aged sister begins to scream at the top of her lungs? Should one be sympathetic? Disinterested? Cheerful?

Yep, that's the workshop I need. It certainly would have come in handy five minutes ago.