While I was decorating your nursery, still just dreaming about my baby that would soon be born, I carefully chose your sheets, your curtains, your blankets, and your first books. I lined them carefully on the shelf in your room, the collection of my favorite books from childhood, the board books that I hoped would become your favorites to look at as you started to want to carry them around with you and take them places, and the new classics that were on every new parents' wish lists.
As a newborn, we would rock together in the rocking chair and I would read to you, choosing a new one each night until I thought you were responding positively to certain ones, and those went into heavy rotation. When I wasn't singing a soft lullaby, I was reading those words, those rhymes, those sweet stories to you and wanting to wrap you in my protection and hopes for your future.
Those mornings when I would strap you into your bouncy seat so I could take a shower, or secure you in your high chair as I finished your lunch, I would hand you a book to gnaw on, open up, toss over the side, and hopefully, entertain you for a few minutes.
When you got to where you'd sit in my lap before nap time and look at a book with me, we'd flip the pages and I'd point out the colors, the objects, and the animals, until you started pointing them out for me.
"Where is the cow?" I'd say, and you'd point to the friendly brown face on the page. "What does the cow say?" I'd ask, and you'd respond with "Moo!" Through each page we went, me asking about each one, and you pointing to them with your chubby, dimpled little fingers.
Your relationship with books has grown so much since birth, and will continue to blossom as we nurture it together.