Books – just like brunch, yoga and farmers markets – take up a large portion of my heart. I can never seem to have enough of them. I chewed on them as a baby, flipped through them each night before bed, and remember The Boxcar Children being the first chapter book I finished on my own. After a hard day cruising around on my Huffy (complete with pompoms and spoke beads) or directing my sisters on the best way to play with Littlest Pet Shop toys (the adorable original kind, not the creepy new kind with abnormally large heads and eyes) I could be found sprawled in my bunk bed or on the family room floor with just the top of my head peeking up over a book cover. Moving from my parents’ house to college and back again and to my own apartments countless times, it was always the book boxes that took up the bulk of the backseat or the U-Haul. I seem drawn to historical fiction and memoirs, but have been known to dabble in each genre. As Miss Rowan turns one, I can’t help but like her even more because of her own love of books. And while she may prefer The Very Hungry Caterpillar while I’m currently racing through It’s Okay to Laugh, I look forward to seeing what her favorite books become; the ones that she reads so often that their worn pages and bent spines seem to open exactly to the best loved parts.  

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