It's Just My Heart
I finally did a thing. I sifted 1,000,000 children’s books into 5 piles for my daughters.
You see, each year for their birthday or Christmas, Grandma and Grandpa with the tractor, (Tom’s folks) gifted the girls with books. These weren’t just any books. My Mother in Law would carefully research selections prior to purchase, actually drive from Bonny Doon to the bookstore in Santa Cruz, and then sign the inside of each hand delivered goodie.
These stories have been with us since the beginning. They’re not just books: they’re time capsules. The girls’ chubby hands would turn the next page, giggling over The Day the Crayons Quit. Their anticipation building as they lived each silly antic in the Life of a Wombat (highly recommend). These treasures were pulled out regularly as the girls grew from babies into toddlers, and then into preschoolers, a staple of love and words stitched together. These books were predictable in an uncertain world. Even when nap time was thrust upon them, they could fall asleep holding onto The Cat Who Ate Potato Soup.
And now, like my children, these stories have taken up residence in different locations. Boxed up for Abby and Bella who will be sharing an apartment in Irvine. Divided up in a closet, carefully labeled for Emma (who’s in France) and Cosette. And happily still lounging on Charlotte’s bookshelf in her room.
It’s the end of an era. My children are dispersed. My in-laws are no longer with