The family went to one of our local libraries today. We came away with a small pile of children’s books, which the girls began to read as soon as we arrived home. I could count the number of times I have visited a library in my adult life on one hand, and I do not really understand why. I suppose I enjoy the physical act of purchasing; being the first one to open the book and smell the newness; knowing that the experience will be stored in my own collection, probably never to be touched again. Not things one can experience with library books.
And yet I read quite a bit. With a multitude of other forms of entertainment all vying for my precious free time, I still manage to squeeze in a book here and there, and always seem to have at least one book in reserve, waiting for its turn. For our daughters, it is a different story.
Most evenings we read a book to them before they go to bed, which works out to over 150 books year. Even with buying second hand books, and borrowing from my work, we are forced to reread books quite a few times. The girls need new stories to enjoy. And that is where the library comes into the story, so to speak. I cannot fathom why we have not used this source of literature before now. I do know that we shall be making many more visits in the future.