Have you ever wondered: How did I turn into such a reading freak?

I think about this sometimes.

And I have an answer.

This one’s fully laid at the feet of my mom.

And I am so stinkin’ grateful to her for that.

When I was a kid, she let me read whatever I wanted (except for that one Judy Blume book she “hid”on the top of the bookshelf at the advice of my babysitter; like I didn’t know it was there!)

But truly, I was stuck in a Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden reading rut (spree?) for a couple of years, and she never said, “Maybe you’d like to read something different for a change?” Not once. She just hauled my skinny little butt into the library time after time, and then hauled me back home with my haul.

When my sixth grade teacher asked her if she realized I was reading a book about the Armenian genocide–and wasn’t she worried about that?–my mom just said, “Yes, I know.” Apparently she’d already been watching to make sure I wasn’t freaking out about it. (She told me this, years later. I never knew my reading patterns were being observed, thank God.)

So as I spend part of yet another Thanksgiving with my nose in a book, I will be thinking of my mom. And I’ll be thanking her.