For as long as I can remember, I have loved books. Words and illustrations. The weight and smell and feel of a book in my hands. The worlds that exist between the pages. I was a good reader from a young age (though not fast, no faster than the voice of the narrator in my head–each character had a unique cadence and timbre) and spent much of my childhood in libraries or quiet corners with my favorite authors and characters.
Hubby and I once tried to estimate how many books we own. We have bookshelves stacked to capacity, piles on tabletops and next to the bed. The best we could come up with was three to four hundred–each. And, yes, we moved every single one of them because no place would feel like home without them.
Before baby girl was born, I opened the box of children’s books I’d been saving for her and added the board books to our shelves. I read at least three books to her each day, and Hubby reads to her in his language, as well.