Cara Marco Pregnancy is public. I thought it was private until I was pregnant myself, and then I quickly learned otherwise. Strangers would tell me I was “such a cute pregnant lady,” reminisce about their own babies long grown, or turn an appraising squint on my belly like a buyer assessing a brood mare. Sometimes strangers’ reactions were kind, even poignant. Other times they were annoying, but when they were, it was usually easy to smile and walk--or wobble--away. Not so when I was at my job at a small academic library. Early on, I was delighted to talk about my pregnancy to anyone who asked, maybe too much so. A typical giddy mom-to-be, I caught myself readily answering patron questions that I had anticipated deflecting. “A boy!” I’d chirp at someone who asked the baby’s gender, and suddenly I’d be chattering along to the patron who just happened to have an eight-month old (“Babyproofing. DO IT.”) When I asked myself whether it was entirely OK to talk about part of my personal life with patrons, I soon shrugged off my own concerns. Things were going fine, it made me more approachable, and it wasn’t a big deal to open up just a little about this part of my life. Until, that is, the last few weeks. When my son’s due date approached and passed with no baby in sight, what had once seemed so comfortable became very uncomfortably medical. The easy pregnancy became harder, with a host of new worries and decisions to make. The doctors’ visits that had been fun and exciting were anything but. Making decisions that could affect my son’s health became vividly scary. I was still working, very visibly pregnant, and increasingly cranky and afraid. I didn’t want to talk about how the baby was doing, why I was still at work, or why he was late anymore. It was hard enough to talk about it to family and friends. Unfortunately, we librarians don’t get to choose our questions. Patrons would say, “You haven’t had that baby yet?” or “It can’t be long now!” When they asked the due date, I started to take a grumpy relish in replying “Last Tuesday.” They didn’t have any way of knowing that what had once been a pleasure to discuss was now very stressful. I had opened the door to patron questions about my life, and getting it closed again was no easy feat. The experience caused me to reassess some of my assumptions about our relationships with patrons. I thought that our patrons didn’t notice or care what was happening with the librarians across the reference desk, but it became clear that many do. I also assumed that patrons wouldn’t ask certain personal questions, but I managed to get questions that surprised me, even after years of public service experience. Though most patrons, even those who inadvertently touched a nerve, were extremely well-meaning, it was also made me feel exposed in a way that could try my patience. I retreated behind a wide smile and non-committal responses, wrenching the conversation toward databases, research, and due dates for books instead of babies. Meanwhile, I had a new insight into what it must be like for public services librarians dealing with visible medical conditions, particularly those that they don’t feel like discussing with strangers. To put it in perspective, my pregnancy was healthy, happy, and far more comfortable than many. If my pregnancy had been high-risk or compromised, dealing with patron questions would have been agonizing instead of occasionally annoying. I considered for the first time how difficult it would have been to come to work with facial bruising from surgery or a labored, painful gait from a car accident, then deal with questions about it. Many of our patrons notice, and sometimes, they ask. One patron might be looking for a way to engage. Another might have simply forgotten herself. Or, sometimes, a patron might intend a question to be casually friendly and not realize that it touches on a painful subject. While we always hope for sensitivity and respectful treatment from our patrons, we know that we can’t depend on it. So we have to depend on something else — ourselves, and the accuracy of our own judgment that a conversation has become uncomfortable, requiring us to protect ourselves emotionally. Though we may owe patrons a professional response, sometimes that response might need to be, “Sorry, but I really don’t feel comfortable discussing that.” No matter how well-meaning or innocent the intrusive comment, librarians need to be prepared to firmly assert their boundaries and their privacy, fully supported by company policy and culture. In the months since my healthy son was born, I’ve gone back to being just another librarian. To some patrons, I’m the librarian who specializes in business topics and works at night. To others, I’m the new mother who might answer questions about her little boy if they don’t get too personal. To others, I’m just another helpful person behind the reference desk. And I’m more than OK with that. Cara Marco is an electronic resources librarian and professor at the Sullivan University Library and Learning Resource Center in Louisville, KY. Submissions for Backtalk should be 850 to 900 words and sent to Michael Kelley at mkelley@mediasourceinc.com