I read. A lot. Books give me joy. Reading books, smelling books, listening to books being read aloud, talking about books, sharing books, buying books, walking through aisles of books, looking at walls covered in books, stacking books next to my bed….

My current favorite thing about books? The way that my 9 week old daughter smiles with delight as her papa reads her a book on his lap. She coos at the pages and chortles. Last time I tried to read to her? Squalls of discontent. Boobs are apparently still better than books in her world.

In a way, books - and reading - may be even more necessary to me this year than in years past. I took one hobby (yoga) and turned it into a business, a job, a career - calling it may be, but something I do solely for myself it is no longer. And then more recently, I took another hobby (weaving) and also turned it into a business; a fun one, a joyful one, but a job nonetheless. And mothering? Mothering might be my primary activity these days, it may be mostly fun, and infinitely rewarding. But it is hardly a thing that I do for myself alone. I feel like keeping something that is just for me, just for joy, just for fun, is important.

Goodreads reflects that I read 79 books in 2015. Not half bad for a year in which I was pregnant and not-infrequently exhausted and sleeping 18 hours a day. My goal was 100, and I’ve set the same goal for myself this year. I expect that I’ll vastly outpace myself and clock in at well over 100 books in 2016.

Because here’s the thing. Kid’s books are books. Those numbers for 2015? They include a Jan Brett book or three.

I’ll read novels and books on yoga and health. I’ll read “Big Magic.” I’ll finish Harry Potter in French. I’ll read for my own amusement and pleasure. I’ll read to feed my own soul. But always and increasingly, I’ll read to Avery. We will read about trolls and treasure hunts, about ridiculous rooms with big green walls and hideous red carpets, about mice and cookies, and about moose and muffins.

Those are books. They count. (Though only once. Even if I read “Llama Llama Red Pajama” 12 million times, it only counts once!)

But just to spice things up a little, perhaps to nudge me past my comfort zone, I’ve printed out a few reading challenges that have been making their way around the interwebs. This one from the Modern Mrs. Darcy is short and sweet and fun. This one from PopSugar is lengthy and honestly, the one I’m least likely to complete. Because political memoirs and dystopian novels? Not my cup of tea. I turn pages primarily for the joy they bring me. Then there’s this one from Book Riot, with the most diverse categories of the three. I’m excited about this one. Or most of it. Again with the dystopia. And horror? Does medieval dismemberment porn in saint’s lives count? I could read one of those again. While I’m certain I could find phenomenal literature for adults, I’m really hoping that I check off “Read a book by or about a person that identifies as a transgender” with a kid’s book.

What about you? What are you reading? What do you recommend?

So far this year, I’ve read “On the Night You Were Born,” “Je t’aimerais toujours,” and the first few chapters of “Surrender to the Devil.” If you were to judge by Regency Romance, Lucifer was a bona fide blue blooded Duke.

The women in my family love to cook. We adore spending hours and hours, days even, in the kitchen. Chopping, dicing, kneading, rolling, sautéing, baking, simmering. Combining flavors into food. There’s something sacred about it, it seems to me. Thanksgiving is a time when we have been known to pull out all the stops. Menu planning has been known to begin in October. Feasts have been laid that are the result of three talented cooks, at least one day of prep, and a day-long marathon of juggling dishes into and out of a single oven and four stove-top burners. This year Thanksgiving was a little different. The menu was pared down to the basics. The day held only the essentials. It was quieter. It was simpler. It was punctuated by cuddles and hours of nursing on the couch, in the rocker, and at the dinner table.

A newborn changes the rhythm of life.

Thanksgiving as a holiday, despite its problematic history of intolerance and genocide, is for me primarily a time for drawing close with loved ones, celebrating the inherent abundance of the universe, and for gratitude. This year was FULL UP of those. So much love of ones so close, so much gratitude.

One month ago, I welcomed my daughter into the world. Avery Iona was born gently, into water, just as the sun was rising behind the snow-clad birches.

My gratitude list this year is simply a litany of her name. Over and over. Gratitude and love. It gives life a whole new sense of meaning, wrapping intention and purpose around this brilliant spark of light and love in a tiny human body.

This year, for her first-ever Thanksgiving, she joined us in the kitchen. Wrapped in a sling, sleeping and awake on her mama’s chest, she helped prep the turkey and get it in the oven. Granted: we spent plenty of time nursing on the couch while Grandma kept the kitchen company; and she spent time cuddling with Grandma and with her dad while I chopped and mixed… But for a bit she joined in the grand kitchen dance, learning the rhythms of the cook. And that is as it should be. That is my thanksgiving.

Today, she is one month old. One month since my world changed forever. Babies are magic, it seems to me. They indelibly change the world as they enter it, shifting the fabric of the universe with their very presence. As they birth themselves, they birth parents, sometimes siblings. They birth a whole new family. They tangle everyone up in love.

And for that, dear existence, I thank you.