Books are everywhere in my home. They’re piled high in every corner, some organized by topic (a librarian’s nightmare is to see books misfiled, even in their own abode). Others have been whimsically stacked by my kids. A collection of sports books here, the beloved Magic Tree House series there, and a random assortment of Kurt Vonnegut titles teetering on the stairs—each a testament to a teenager’s quest for identity. They find homes on nightstands, bathroom counters, under sofas, and crammed into closets. I’ve even spotted them in the car, beach bags, and old backpacks—some long overdue to be returned.
While I don’t have a penchant for trendy shoes, oversized leather purses, or luxurious makeup, I do have a weakness for bookstores. The aroma of paper, ink, and newly cracked spines sends me into a delightful swoon, and I’m not above indulging online either. (P.S. I owe you one, Mr. Bezos.) My home library is substantial but not overwhelming. I have a knack for culling books, knowing when a volume has outlived its usefulness (like that well-loved Goodnight Moon board book) and when it’s time to pass on a title that has served me well (like The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding).
Upon closer inspection, the books lining my shelves narrate the evolving saga of my journey through motherhood and perhaps reflect my current phase in life. I recently realized that my chaotic stacks are predominantly filled with fiction—parenting guides have nearly vanished! (Okay, I did try reading The Teenage Brain, but that turned out to be a futile endeavor, so I tossed it aside.) It seems I’ve jumped past the parenting manual phase and settled comfortably into escapism through the lives of fictional characters, where I can ponder their dilemmas instead of my own parenting challenges.
Admittedly, the quirky characters conjured by some truly gifted authors have offered me a sense of reassurance. (Thanks for that, Carl Hiaasen—could I be the only “normal” person in Florida?) My literary besties like Jenna Lawson, Emily Giffin, and Rachel Weisz always resonate with me. They just get it, and I’m grateful for their words. And to literary geniuses like Tartt and Doerr—kudos to your English teachers!
Over the past two decades, the books on my shelves have woven a tale of a young woman who transformed into an insecure, often overwhelmed mother, frequently searching for guidance in the whirlwind of parenting. She quickly learned that the perfect parenting book for her family doesn’t exist. Instead, these guides often require extensive analysis, leading to frustration as she tries to sift through advice that doesn’t apply to her unique family dynamic.
As the years rolled on, I evolved into a seeker of faith and wisdom, a humor enthusiast, and, thanks to a growing collection of cookbooks, quite the cook! Each iteration of myself—through the seasons of motherhood and life—has fueled my desire to bury myself in books. I read to learn, to find answers, to feel supported, and to seek peace.
In my early days, before love found me and I sought to define it, I turned to Leo Buscaglia’s Loving Each Other and Gary Chapman’s The Five Love Languages. I probably didn’t need a book to tell me that acts of service make me happy, but hey, it was a start! During my initial pregnancy, I opted for Iris Krasnow’s Surrendering to Motherhood over the typical What to Expect guides. This book both terrified and captivated me—what was I really going to surrender? Oh, just about everything!
The days of juggling two diaper-wearing toddlers filled my shelves with chewed-up board books and titles promising to solve sleep issues. My preference for parenting in daylight became clear, along with my escalating need for uninterrupted sleep, which only heightened my tolerance for the cries of my little ones.
The arrival of my third and fourth children, coupled with a tough bout of postpartum depression, led me to unfamiliar territory. Books like What Happened to My Life, Unglued, Out of the Spin Cycle, Peaceful Parent, Happy Kids, The Noonday Demon, and Simplicity Parenting helped me navigate those tumultuous waters. Brooke Shields’s Down Came the Rain had a profound impact on me. Forget Blue Lagoon; I truly hope she’s remembered for normalizing and de-stigmatizing postpartum depression. And to Anne Morrow Lindbergh, your Gift from the Sea is a treasure!
Fast forward a few years, and I found myself exploring the fringes of parenting literature, devouring Bringing Up Bébé (I was also in a “let’s run away to Paris” phase), Free-Range Kids, The Idle Parent, and Duct Tape Parenting. I was ready to shed the helicopter parenting mentality and embrace a philosophy of “less is more.”
In the thick of parenting struggles while trying to refine my mothering style, I found myself spiritually bankrupt. I reached for Lauren Winner’s Girl Meets God, Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies, Ann Voskamp’s One Thousand Gifts, and works by C.S. Lewis, Beth Moore, and Lee Strobel. I craved spiritual renewal, and once again, books quenched my thirst for answers.
With newfound confidence in my mothering approach and emotional layers peeled away, it was time to rediscover my passions. Enter my “all about me” reading phase, filled with books that piqued my interest simply because I wanted to read them. Suddenly, I was eager to document my culinary endeavors, raise chickens, knit sweaters, master bread baking, ferment pickles, and even tackle hiking the Pacific Crest Trail! I devoured food memoirs like Molly Wizenberg’s A Homemade Life and Elizabeth Bard’s Lunch in Paris. I laughed out loud at Josh Kilmer-Purcell’s The Bucolic Plague and Kristin Kimball’s The Dirty Life, which had me dreaming of rural life with my boys and goats. And who knew there were young, humorously inclined knitters out there?
My cookbook collection exploded, and I discovered Sarah Bowen Shea’s and Dimity McDowell’s delightful titles for “mother runners.” A funny essay I penned even made it into their latest book, Tales From Another Mother Runner. The joy of reading about talented writers who whip up delicious food, craft homesteads, and run marathons ignites my desire to create and share.
I know my current fiction phase will eventually shift, giving way to books on empty nesting, navigating menopause, and discovering joy in retirement. I’ll read about finding purpose after the kids have flown the coop and coping with the inevitable changes life brings. But I’m confident that my shelves will never stand empty. A memorable encounter at the library taught me that lesson well.
One day, an elderly woman inquired, “Can you tell me where the books on sexual positions are?” Now that’s a reminder, friends—there’s always something new to learn from books. Whether before motherhood, during it, or after, the quest for knowledge is never-ending. How exhilarating is that?
To read more about personal journeys and insights, check out our other blog posts on related topics like home insemination and starting your family. For a great resource on pregnancy, visit MedlinePlus.
Summary: This article reflects on the author’s evolving relationship with reading and motherhood over the years. It explores the journey from parenting books to fiction, emphasizing how literature has been a constant source of comfort, guidance, and joy throughout the various stages of motherhood. The piece also highlights the importance of continuous learning and self-discovery through books.