I had a voracious appetite for books as a child. My mother paraded me and my 3 siblings to the library every week in the summer, and while my siblings grabbed a book or 2 off of the shelves (that they may or may not open up throughout the week), I loaded up my arms with more books than I could carry. Seven, eight, maybe nine books that I intended to read over the next several days until we made the pilgrimage back to the building that housed these windows into worlds outside of mine. Curled up in my bed back at home, I dove into pages that sparked my imagination and gave me zest for a life outside of the four walls of my very pink bedroom. I had my first child when I was practically a child myself. Relatively clueless about babies and their lack of attention span, I started buying and collecting children’s books, anxious to read him Dr. Seuss and Goodnight Moon . Finally in the midst of toddlerhood, he learned the wonder and excitement of cozying up and hearing a story, watching it