|Check out Stories for Grown-ups.|
When I was little my mom took me to the library. Actually, several of them. One was a small building that was a short walk through the park across from our house. The other one that I remember was a much larger building the next town over, and I think the entire basement of the building was the children's section. (I could be making that second one up.)
By the time I was four, I knew all about Caldecott and Newbery medals and that Andrew Carnegie was a good man who must have liked books. When my mom took over the library at my elementary school, I spent my mornings with her re-shelving books and laying on the floor with the latest books that came in before it was time for me to leave for half-day kindergarten.
I spent my afternoons in middle school at the library and even semi-followed in mom's footsteps, becoming a library assistant during my free period in high school. And then, I forgot about libraries for a while, unless I had a report to do or needed a quiet place to study.
Then I had a baby. And that made me remember that libraries are special.
So now, I visit a library about once a week. I order my books online and bring them home so my son and I can read together. He lights up with joy whenever I bring home new books to read at bedtime, and I freshen my supply for my 100 of Something project (see previous post).
I did listen to you, mom, when you told me that reading was important. I just forgot for a little while.