My dear daughter, I remember the days when I had to read to you. I remember when you were much more interested in chewing the books than reading them. We would sit in the rocking chair, your diapered bottom planted on my lap, and you would reach up and grab my mouth while I read, jamming your sticky fingers in my mouth unexpectedly. I would laugh and remove them, planting a kiss on your sweet head before distracting you by pointing out a picture on the page. Now you're so big, you don't fit on my lap anymore. You no longer need me to read to you, although you still sweetly seek me out to do so. Your taste in books has changed from talking bunnies and singsong rhymes to Calvin and Hobbes and Captain Underpants; the more potty humor, the better. I have just one request, my girl: never stop sharing books with me. Whether you read to me, or you roll your eyes when I suggest reading to you, just please--let us keep this little ritual forever.