This is a weird year with no reading resolutions to set for next year. Somewhere around the summer solstice there will be a Rothschid-child arriving and I know enough about parenthood to realize that next year is a year to make few plans and just roll with the punches. Or dirty diapers.
I'm at that fun stage where you can't tell if I'm pregnant or had too many cookies. Secretly, I think I've had too many cookies, but I'm saying it's the baby.
But here's a poem about Christmas and babies.
Each Night a Child is Born
For so the children come
and so they have been coming.
Always in the same way they came—
Born of the seed of man and woman.
No angels herald their beginnings.
No prophets predict their future courses.
No wise men see a star to show where to find
The babe that will save humankind.
Yet each night a child is born is a holy night.
Fathers and mothers—
Sitting beside their children’s cribs—
Feel the glory in the sight of a new life beginning.
They ask “Where and how will this new life end?
Or will it ever end?”
Each night a child is born is a holy night—
A time for singing—
A time for wondering—
A time for worshipping.
--Sophia Lyon Fahs
Round up is over at A Year of Reading!
Now for more cookies. (They're good for the baby, I hear.)