I was a middle child. Growing up, there was always a steady stream of books available for me to read. My parents must have acquired books for my older siblings as they reached new developmental stages, so by the time I was old enough to read, there was already a vast library to choose from. When I was finished with one book, I would sit in front of the towering shelves and look at the spines, all neatly arranged, trying to decide which to start on next. The question never was whether I would start another book. It was always, simply, which? I can remember fingering certain volumes, intrigued by their covers, just waiting for the time when their wonders would be accessible to me. 

Recently, it dawned on me that it is one of my responsibilities, as a parent, to provide the opportunity for such wishful waiting to my own children. I want them to grow up with that same sense of eager anticipation.