Having just returned from a wonderful visit to my mom and dad's house, I have a few observations. Observation number one: my parents have an impressive collection of books. Not only the quantity, but the beautiful vintage books, many of them from when my dad was a child. The books that my kids cart out during our visits bring me back to my childhood. And yet with all their nostalgic and probably actual value (for the extra vintage ones), my mom never places the books out of the children's reach. They reside on the bottom two shelves, awaiting the sticky, none-too-gentle fingers. More often than not, those little fingers eagerly bring them to Nana for lazy, lengthy story-time sessions.Which brings me to observation number two: my mom is a reader. She loves reading on her own. She loves reading aloud to other people. Not only does she love to read, but she's excellent at it. Most of the Sunday afternoons I remember growing up were spent lounging in the living room while she read Tolkien's tales of hobbits and rings. How many times she must have read those books to us. If she ever picks up The Hobbit while we're visiting, I still thrill at her reading of the three trolls, who in her rendition have cockney accents.
Fingerless gloves for my mom, interwoven with fairytale vines, will hopefully keep those reading sessions going strong for years to come.