My home is filled with books—piled high in every corner, organized by subject (a librarian’s nightmare is finding a misfiled book in her own living room). Meanwhile, my children have contributed their own chaos to the shelves, with stacks of sports books, the beloved Magic Tree House series, and a collection of Kurt Vonnegut titles that suggest a teenage quest for identity. Books are crammed in every possible nook: on nightstands, balancing on toilet tanks, tucked beneath couches, and even stashed away in beach bags and old backpacks, some of which are long overdue.
While I might not have a penchant for trendy shoes or luxurious handbags, nothing makes my heart race quite like the scent of a bookstore—the earthy aroma of paper and ink, and the feel of a book’s spine cracking for the first time. My home library is substantial but not excessive; after all, I’ve spent years curating collections for libraries and can easily do the same at home. I recognize when a book has outlived its usefulness (like the battered corners of a board book) and when it’s time to pass on a title that has served its purpose (such as The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding).
The books on my shelves tell a vivid tale of my motherhood journey, mirroring my current life stage. Recently, I observed that my chaotic piles are predominantly filled with fiction, with hardly a parenting guide in sight. (Okay, I did try reading The Teenage Brain, but let’s face it: there’s no deciphering that enigma.) It seems I’ve transitioned beyond the parenting manual phase and am now comfortably immersed in the worlds of fictional characters, where I can escape analysis of my own life and parenting style.
Admittedly, the quirky characters born from the imaginations of brilliant authors have made me feel a bit better about myself. Thank you, Max Rendell, for your relatable tales that remind me I’m not the only one navigating the complexities of life. And to my literary companions—Sophie Carter, Emma Fields, and Lily Brooks—your stories resonate deeply, and I’m grateful for that connection. A shout-out to the writers like the Tartts and Doerrs, whose educational prowess deserves recognition.
The array of books on my shelves over the past two decades could tell the story of a young woman who evolved into an insecure and exhausted mother, often feeling lost amidst the chaos of raising little ones and searching for the parenting book that would truly resonate with her family. Spoiler alert: such a book doesn’t exist. Most parenting books require extensive reading, leading to hours spent dissecting advice that often doesn’t apply to my unique family dynamic.
As the years passed, I transformed into a seeker of wisdom and humor, and my culinary skills flourished thanks to a growing collection of cookbooks. Each phase of my motherhood journey has pushed me deeper into the pages of various books—seeking knowledge, encouragement, support, and moments of tranquility.
In the early days, before love had truly taken hold, I turned to Leo Buscaglia’s Loving Each Other and Gary Chapman’s The Five Love Languages. While I might not have needed a book to tell me that acts of service bring me joy, those insights certainly helped. As I faced the first signs of pregnancy, I reached for Iris Krasnow’s Surrendering to Motherhood, a book that both terrified and fascinated me. What was I getting ready to surrender? Almost everything, it turned out.
When I found myself parenting two toddlers in diapers, my shelves filled with chewed-up board books and titles promising sleep solutions. My preference for parenting in daylight became clear, as did my increasing tolerance for the cries that interrupted my desperately needed sleep.
With the arrival of my third and fourth children, along with a challenging bout of postpartum depression, I found solace in books like What Happened to My Life, Unglued, and Peaceful Parent, Happy Kids. These titles helped ground me during turbulent times. Brooke Shields’ Down Came the Rain was particularly impactful, as her candidness about her struggles with postpartum depression helped normalize and destigmatize the experience. To Anne Morrow Lindbergh, I owe gratitude for your words in Gift from the Sea, which have offered comfort during difficult moments.
Not long after, I began to explore a broader range of parenting literature, diving into Bringing Up Bébé during my “I want to escape to Paris” phase, along with titles like Free-Range Kids and Duct Tape Parenting. I was ready to abandon helicopter parenting, embracing the philosophy that less is often more in motherhood.
As I grappled with parenting angst and sought to redefine my mothering approach, I found my faith wavering. I reached for Lauren Winner’s Girl Meets God, Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies, and Ann Voskamp’s One Thousand Gifts seeking spiritual renewal. Books always have been my refuge, nourishing my soul.
Once I felt secure in my role as a mother and my emotional layers began to reveal themselves, I turned my attention back to my own interests. I yearned to write about my culinary adventures, raise chickens, and embrace new hobbies like knitting and baking. I devoured food memoirs like Molly Wizenberg’s A Homemade Life and Josh Kilmer-Purcell’s The Bucolic Plague, which made me laugh and consider a life of farming.
As I acquired cookbooks like a culinary student on a mission, I discovered Sarah Bowen Shea’s and Dimity McDowell’s series for “mother runners,” and was thrilled to contribute a story to their latest anthology, Tales From Another Mother Runner. The joy I find in the works of talented writers inspires me to create delicious dishes and reflect on childhood memories tied to food.
I know that my current fiction phase will eventually shift to new themes, such as coping with an empty nest, navigating menopause, and finding purpose after the kids have grown. However, I refuse to let my bookshelf run dry. I was reminded of this during an encounter at the library, when an elderly woman approached me with a simple request that made it clear: The thirst for knowledge is eternal, and there’s always something to learn from books—no matter our stage in life.
In conclusion, my journey through motherhood, as told through my bookshelves, showcases the evolution of my identity, my challenges, and my triumphs. The stories I’ve collected reflect not only my experiences but also the universality of the human condition, reminding us that learning is a lifelong endeavor.