Welcome back to Friday Confessions! This Friday, it’s all about me. My confession, that is.
I buy books under the pretense of buying them for my daughter.
But that’s not so bad, right? I mean, she may enjoy them someday, who knows?
An example: I can hit up a library sale and easily
walk stagger out loaded down. The lure of $1 of $.50 books is just too much. Upon arriving home, my husband gives me that look. The one that says, “I love you, so I’m not going to complain, but did we need that stuff?”
And the answer is, yes. Yes, we did.
The thing is, I love stocking our bookshelves with books from my own childhood. I want her to read Dr. Seuss, and Eric Carle, Cynthia Rylant, and Marcus Pfister. As she grows, I have Beverly Cleary, Judy Blume, and Lois Lowry at the ready.
But there’s more.
I buy them from clearance racks to feed her current interests. We have books on animals of all kinds, on dump trucks, and on things you find in a purse. We have books about Christmas, and Easter, and Thanksgiving, and Halloween.
Besides including books as her gift for every major holiday, I also give them to my husband for Christmas, his birthday, Father’s Day, and sign them from her. These are the books with the special daddy-daughter theme.
Is there some selfishness in all of this? Probably. I could spend an entire afternoon happily browsing the children’s section of the bookstore. I take joy in rereading my old favorites, and in finding new ones.
But just maybe, as she grows, she’ll take pleasure in these books, too. And when she’s 30 (you know, EONS from now) she’ll be tracking some of these books down to put on her child’s bookshelves.
So you see, it’s really not all about me.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.