A long time ago I had a dream of a child who loved books. It was before Lily got here, before we knew she was Lily. And now I have one. A child who loves books, that is. Most of a day together at home is spent passing books to each other, or from her to me and her jumping in front of me signaling that I put her in my lap so we can read the aforementioned book. It goes on and on. The little bookworm.
At times it can be exhausting. But a lot of times I am sitting in the chair in the living room with a book perched in front of my nose. Why wouldn't she think that reading is normal and what we do all the time? Because, in all honesty, it sort of is.
Of course we watch TV, too. Lily doesn't per se, but even yesterday while I was wallowing in sinus headache hell, I pulled her onto the bed to watch Julie & Julia on Netflix. She laid back and sucked her thumb for a total of three minutes before finding something else to do. We don't, however, flip on cartoons and expect her to watch. She's far too busy for that.
But books. Right now it's all about the books. We read a lot of Dr. Seuss and Do Unto Otters. Some Sandra Boynton and Olivia. And I reminded of how much I wanted a little bookworm. At one-and-a-half, she is quite that.