This past weekend I stood in front of the three towering bookcases that dominate my room and guessed how many I had. Around 300, I estimated. I was pretty far off. 446 is the official number I counted each. 446 books. To give you a sense of perspective, 446 books is almost more than my three, floor to ceiling book shelves can withstand. To be fair, a good portion were books bestowed to me by my parents and sister. My parents and sister constantly cleanse their personal collections. They simply drop books off with a “You might like this.” I’ve always been happy to give those dejected books a safe place.

My family has always been one of readers. Until the age of nine, I assumed everyone had bookshelves overflowing in their homes. I assumed everyone read as often as my family did. Even before I knew how to read, I loved books. Every night for years, my mother would sit my older brother and me down and read to us. The first four of the Harry Potter books were heard, rather than read, as were nearly the entire Little House on the Prairie series, Mrs. Piggle Wiggle, and more. At the end of each little session, my mother would have to pry me off of my brother’s coach and march me to my own room. It didn’t seem fair that reading time was over.

As I got older, my reading material became more and more varied. I was no longer confined by what books my mother felt like reading to me. I often grew angry at my parents and siblings, as I wanted to read the books they were reading, and I was deemed “Not old enough”.

In fifth grade, my school has a “Reading Challenge”. You read books and write an index card on the book, and you get to put a sticker on the Reading chart. Fifth grade was an especially difficult year for me. Every group of girls goes through their catty phase. For my grade at Washington Episcopal School, cattiness came early. Most of fifth grade was extremely difficult for me. I was marked and my friends turned on me. One of the few outlets I had was reading. It was easy to slip into my present book and forget all about my lackluster real life. Needless to say, I read the second most books of any fifth grader ever. Sayema Tareq, a girl the year previous to me, kept me from the golden first place. However, I was happy to settle for the silver.

Currently, I don’t have as much time as I used to for reading. The perpetual pile of books that sits by my bed is the bane of my existence. All I ever do is add. I manage a book every couple weeks, but that’s not enough to get though the pile. It’s frustrating to me that, with the added amount of schoolwork and other obligatory work that I have so little time left to me at the end of the day. To add insult to injury, the pile is even more varied now, because I am now decreed, “Old enough” for many books that were beyond my abilities before.

Despite my current, and probably future (High School will be even more demanding) lack of “reading time” deep down inside, I am a reader. It’s as if it is coded into my DNA, “Eyes: Blue, Hair: Brown, Reading: YES.” Always have been, always will be. It’s comforting to me to know that, at the end of the day, I have that cozy book to snuggle into.