I love books. New ones, old ones, plastic baby ones and thick leather ones. I. love. them. all. :) I think it's a genetic disorder. My Pawpaw has so many books they won't fit in his library. Subsequently, he's boxed some of his dear friends (that's what they're called in my family) and put them in hibernation above his garage. My cousin Blair, it is told, suffers from the same affliction. I'm sad to say this disease has reached not only my husband (we aren't allowed unsupervised in bookstores together - it results in the spending of all our savings...or at least all of our Christmas money. If you're wondering, that's why you didn't receive a Christmas gift last year. Silly Half Price books.) BUT my daughter as well.
She recently discovered she has a bookshelf in her room. After deciding gnawing on the walnut rungs was a poor decision, she moved on to pulling everything off the shelves. Dr. Seuss stuffed animals provided little to no entertainment. Toy cars were sneered at and puzzle given a glance and tossed aside. But the books. Oh the books. She removed them in a hurry, but ever since has slowly inspected them. While she still has to be coaxed into listening for more than 30 seconds, she works over time when it comes to inspecting the covers, pages and letters on a page.
Last night she spent some time reading with Daddy. (P.S. Those are the moments when I get my paycheck.) There was a mirror in the book. FOr the first time she looked behind the book for the baby. :)
I cannot wait for the day when I will teach her the smell of old books and joy of turning the crisp pages of a new book. OH! And the satisfaction of breaking in the binding of ANY book. I just got chills. No. Really. I did. :)