Like many people I know, I fantasize about what I would do if I won the lottery, or started making an obscene amount of money, etc.
I sit in my warm flannel jammy-pants, drinking my fresh ground coffee, eating my organic granola with organic dried blueberries and soy milk, imagining what life would be like if I were wealthy.
Then I catch a moment from Blue’s Clue’s on t.v. telling me that fully 2/3 of children in America have no age appropriate books at home.
My mind flashes to the hundreds, literally hundreds, of brightly covered volumes in my daughter’s room. So many books that she can’t get through all of them in a year of nightly story-times.
I think about my son’s little bookshelf, already covered in board books and sweet stories just waiting for him to get old enough to enjoy them.
I think about my childhood, when my father built me a bookshelf that went floor to ceiling and covered the whole wall just so most of my books could fit in it. The nightly story from my parents, the books my mom kept excitedly telling me I must read.
Suddenly, I feel obscenely, ostentatiously, ridiculously, rich.