Teach your children well.

A few weeks ago, my brother-in-law was admiring our book collection.

"You guys have awesome books," he said.

"Thank you," I preened, like the mother of a newborn baby.

But, you see, these books are like my babies. OK, sure, I didn't teach them to walk or talk. Books have authors for that. No, it's the way I treat them once they're given to me that makes it seem like they are my own offspring - well fed, clothed and nurtured. That also means I only loan them out to people I trust - who I know will take care of them. No bad babysitters need apply.

Once, though, I loaned my entire "Harry Potter" collection to a co-worker. One of the copies came back without its jacket. That's like leaving Daughter X's winter coat on the playground on the coldest day in December and then shoving her out of the car at the curb at the end of a play date. You just don't do that. It's against God's way. Seriously. Needless to say, no more books went that co-worker's direction.

Dr. X isn't much better. Strangely, he also read one of my "Harry Potter" novels and can't seem to figure what he did with a jacket cover. There are a few dogeared pages, a few coffee-drip stains. Totally unforgivable. Unfortunately, I am married to him, and since we are husband and wife, I guess we're expected to share all property. And that includes my books. My. books.

[When we got married, Dr. X didn't own a lot of fiction and I've never been a big fan of the non-fiction variety. When our collections merged, it looked a lot more like some hippie naturalist philosopher was shacking up with a flighty romantic who thrived on 19th-century literature and poetry, with a strong penchant for young-adult fantasy fiction. Since then, we've introduced each other to a lot of stuff in between. I'm most excited about whatever book is waiting for me under the Christmas tree, in my Easter basket or for whatever other gift-giving holiday presents itself. Red roses on Valentine's Day? Forget about it. I'll take Steinbeck, please. At least Dr. X is interested in growing our literary family, even though he's not the most in-touch father of the year in this department.]

I'm a big fan of the public library, too. That means I'm sharing books with people pretty much all the time. I'm excited when I'm the first to read a new addition to my local branch's collection. I love the smell. The pristine pages. The sound of the spine cracking as my eager hands flip pages for the first time. So, I'm pretty appalled when I get an edition that has suffered abuse worthy of intervention from Child Protective Services. Like torn pages. Food smears. Water damage. Written notes in the margin. Oh, the horror.

My books have two places - on the bedside table or the bookshelf. They steer clear of water glasses and food of any sort. I wash my hands before reading. I'd rather get a paper cut than than cause a tear. And they don't get beaten up in the suitcase I call my purse.

My books are laughed over. Cried over. Debated about and make me angry. Just like a child. I can choose to put them back on the shelf or enjoy them over and over, taken back out to peruse whenever I feel the urge. They don't grow up and they never get old. They don't kick me after climbing into bed with me in the middle of the night.

Like a good child, they do what they're told and provide endless entertainment.