Munch has hit the point where he beelines to the older kids' section of the bookstore, where there are no picture books or toys. For some reason, nothing has hit me with a harder wave of nostalgia and sense of time speeding by than watching him browse through the Beverly Clearys and Madeleine L'Engles. Hope you guys understand. Can't exactly talk about this with most people, as it sounds obnoxiously braggy at M's age. I was a sickly kid, and a lot of the books he's reaching for now were my best companions in childhood.