By Caitlin Van Hefty 
I am grateful to my children for so many things. But there is one in particular I feel especially thankful for: They reinvigorated my love of stories.
I’ve been a bibliophile at heart since I was a little girl. I’ve always felt a deep connection to words. I believe in the power of a story. I believe in its ability to shape our minds, change our perspectives, and deepen our levels of empathy.
As a child, I absolutely adored storytime. Cozying up with a favorite book, nestling a stuffed animal under the crook of my arm, listening to the soothing cadence of a parent’s voice—it all felt so special, so sacred.
But as I entered adulthood, I lost myself as a reader. I can count on one hand the number of public library visits I had in my twenties. College textbook assignments replaced my fantasy books and binge-worthy bestsellers. Between school, work, and a busy social life, I let “reading for fun” become a long-lost priority.
But since welcoming my two sons into this world, now ages five and two, my bibliophile spirit has been restored in so many beautiful and unexpected ways.
When I was pregnant with my firstborn, I put careful thought into preparing the bookshelves in his nursery. As I sifted through my brand-new stack of board books, a warm tidal wave of nostalgia washed over me. Goodnight Moon, Love You Forever, Corduroy, The Giving Tree, The Very Hungry Caterpillar. As I read these aloud to him a few months later, deep in the throes of newborn feedings and sleep deprivation, I felt a profound sense of peace and comfort. These stories had made their way back into my heart, and they were poised and ready to be passed on to the next generation of readers in our home.
Today, storytime is one of the best parts of my day. I love curling up with one or both of my kids and getting lost in the magic of a book. It doesn’t matter if we’ve read it twice or two hundred times. It’s amazing how children can experience the same story over and over again with the same level of wonder and joy as the first time. They remind us it’s okay to find comfort in a favorite story, and to return to that place of solace as often as needed.
Today, when we read together, the busy and loud world quiets down. There is just a mother’s voice, a toddler’s smile, a giggle shared when the last few lines are read together as a synchronized duet. There is the comfortable rhythm of a story’s arc, becoming a shared journey to travel together from the first to the last page.
Today, the library is a happy place for us. I am forever indebted to all of the wonderful children’s librarians who are so passionate about making these public spaces a safe and enjoyable place to be as a family. Watching my kids browse the rows of books—and sometimes plop right down in the middle of the walkway to immediately enjoy a new story—makes me smile every time. Without fail, my 2-year-old bolts to the Eric Carle section to find his beloved Brown Bear, Brown Bear. We purchased our own copy, but he doesn’t care. He wants the one with worn pages. He wants to read it in the splash of sunshine streaming through the library’s tall window, at a little table built just for him, surrounded by the sounds of toddlers enjoying their own favorite tales.
Today, when we are in the middle of a particularly loved book, especially one of the classics, it is not just us on the couch.
With us are all of the generations of young readers who believe in the power of a story. All of the caregivers who cherish storytime for the connection and purpose it brings to a family. With us are all of our shared moments, past to present, of happy endings that we can—and should—read over, and over, and over again. Like words imprinted on a page, these moments will stay imprinted on our hearts forever.
by Mary Reding Shonka 
by Amy Sharpe 
