In my home, books are abundant. They are stacked in every corner, organized by subject—after all, as a librarian, I can’t stand misshelved books, even in my own space. Some piles have been curated by my children: the sports section, the Magic Tree House series, and a collection of Kurt Vonnegut titles that hint at the teenage quest for identity. Books appear on bedside tables, toilet tanks, beneath couches, and in the nooks of closets. They hide in backseats, beach bags, and old backpacks, often overdue and lost to time.
Unlike a penchant for trendy footwear or luxurious handbags, my heart races at the sight of bookstores—the intoxicating aroma of paper, ink, and that delightful sound of a spine cracking for the first time. My home library is substantial but not overwhelming; I have the ability to clear out books that no longer serve me, knowing when a title has outlived its usefulness (like the well-loved, chewed corners of a Goodnight Moon board book) or when it’s time to pass on a beloved classic (such as The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding).
The collection of books on my shelves narrates the story of my journey through motherhood. It reflects my current phase of life quite vividly. Recently, I realized that my chaotic stacks are predominantly filled with fiction, with scarcely a parenting book in sight. (I did attempt to read The Teenage Brain, but that topic remains an enigma I couldn’t decode.) Perhaps I’ve transcended the parenting manual stage and now immerse myself in the lives of fictional characters, seeking an escape from the complexities of my own motherhood journey.
I must confess that some of the eccentric characters I’ve encountered through the pages—thanks to brilliant authors—have provided me with a sense of relief about my own parenting. A shout-out to the likes of Max Turner; could I be the only sane person in Florida? And my fictional companions—Samantha Lee, Emma Clarke, and Jenna Wallace—always elicit a resounding “Yes!” in agreement. Your words resonate with me, and I am grateful for that. To literary geniuses like the Tartts and Doerrs: kudos to your mentors!
The books on my shelves over the past two decades tell the tale of a young woman who morphs into an overwhelmed mother, often feeling lost in the whirlwind of raising young children. She searches for the perfect parenting guide but eventually realizes such a book does not exist. Parenting literature often feels like a task of deconstructing theories that may not apply to her unique family situation.
As time elapses, she evolves into a seeker of wisdom, humor, and even culinary skills, thanks to an ever-expanding library of cookbooks. Each iteration of my maternal identity and the life stages yet to come keep me engrossed in literature—to seek knowledge, find encouragement, and gain support.
In the early days, before love graced my life, I turned to Leo Buscaglia’s Loving Each Other and Gary Chapman’s The Five Love Languages. While I may not have needed a book to tell me that help around the house brings joy, the early pangs of pregnancy led me to Iris Krasnow’s Surrendering to Motherhood. It both frightened and inspired me before I even held my child—what, exactly, would I be surrendering? Oh, just about everything.
The initial days of juggling two infants filled my home with board books and titles like Sleep Solutions and Nighttime Parenting. I discovered that I preferred parenting during daylight hours, and my craving for uninterrupted sleep made me more tolerant of crying it out.
With the arrival of baby number three and the emotional weight of postpartum depression, I found myself in a space of despair, surrounded by books such as What Happened to My Life and Peaceful Parent, Happy Kids. Brooke Shields’ Down Came the Rain became a lifeline, normalizing and destigmatizing my own struggles with PPD. I also found comfort in Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s Gift from the Sea, whose wisdom would have made her a wonderful neighbor.
A few years later, I began exploring parenting books that challenged traditional norms. I devoured Bringing Up Bébé during my “I want to run away to Paris” phase, along with titles like Free-Range Kids and Duct Tape Parenting. I was ready to move away from helicopter parenting, seeking reassurance that less is indeed more.
As I navigated my parenting journey, I faced a crisis of faith. In search of renewal, I turned to Lauren Winner’s Girl Meets God and Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies, alongside works by C.S. Lewis and Beth Moore. Books have always quenched my spiritual thirst.
Once I regained my footing in motherhood and my emotional layers began to heal, I craved books just for me. I became enamored with the idea of writing about my meals, raising chickens, and even tackling knitting and baking. I dove into foodie memoirs like Molly Wizenberg’s A Homemade Life and Josh Kilmer-Purcell’s The Bucolic Plague, which had me contemplating a rural life next to goats. And who knew there were others like me, juggling motherhood and knitting with humor?
My interest in cookbooks surged, and I found solace in the writings of fellow “mother runners.” A humorous piece I wrote even found a place in their latest anthology, celebrating the trials and triumphs of motherhood and running. Those who craft delicious meals and share their stories fill my heart with joy and inspire me to create meaningful memories.
I am aware that my current fixation on fiction will eventually shift to books addressing life’s transitions—empty nesting, navigating menopause, or finding fulfillment post-children. Yet, I am certain that my thirst for knowledge will never be quenched, regardless of the phase I find myself in.
Years ago, while working the reference desk at the library, a woman in her 80s approached me with a question that reminded me of this truth. Without hesitation, she asked, “Can you tell me where the books on sexual positions are?” It’s a reminder that there is always something to learn, regardless of one’s stage in life.
Books will always be a source of inspiration and education, whether before motherhood, during it, or after it. I can’t imagine a more exciting prospect than that for fellow bibliophiles.
In summary, the journey through motherhood is reflected in the diverse books on my shelves, each representing a phase of my life, from parenting manuals to fiction that offers escapism. The evolution of my reading habits mirrors my growth as a mother, and I remain committed to lifelong learning through literature.
Leave a Reply