<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tZVufRlMtzM/Sp76iYa-MYI/AAAAAAAABew/9RQUKUGA7sQ/s1600-h/DSC06698.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_tZVufRlMtzM/Sp76iYa-MYI/AAAAAAAABew/9RQUKUGA7sQ/s400/DSC06698.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377010473705025922" /></a><br />Storytime is kind of a big deal in our house. By that I mean, our lives revolve around books. When my husband, Aaron, has tons of reading to do for his college courses, he kills two birds with one stone by reading his assignments to our 18-month-old son, Sam. He's good at making endoplasmic reticulae and derivatives and graphic calculator manuals sounds just as interesting as the adventures of Curious George, as soothing as Goodnight Moon or even as funny as Scaredy Squirrel.<br /><br />Read <a href="http://www.ttownmoms.com/?page=blogs/view&amp;BLID=5955">the rest of this story and see the video at tTownMoms.com</a>.