Books

I love books. I really, really do. I was thinking about it all day. It started last night when I ran across a quote from Anna Quindlen that I'd saved. "I would be the most content if my children grew up to be the kind of people who think decorating consists mostly of building enough bookshelves."

This morning, I got Quinn out of bed and directly onto the changing table, where I'd accidently left the copy of Click, Clack, Moo! Cows That Type by Doreen Cronin that I'd been reading to him last night. Now I don't read to him every night, but I do sometimes and he loves it. But it's not like you see on TV, where the child sits contentedly in his mother's lap and listens, or even where he's grabbing the page and trying to tear it. Nope. He won't stay in my lap. Instead, I'm on a bench and he's stuck in his crib (can't get out) and he's using it as a trampoline and yelling and you can barely hear me. But he seems to like it because he smiles a lot when I read and so I do it anyway. So this morning when I put him on the changing table, he grabbed the book, opened it up, turned it right side up (how did he know?) and proceeded to read it to me. "Ababble-ee-ah-sooooo. Cick, cack, MOO! (He turns the page.) Ha-ba-ba-na-na-na. Cick, cack, MOOOOOO! (He turns the page again.) RRRAAAAAAAAAA! Cick, Cack, MOO! I was so impressed. I honestly thought he hadn't heard a word of what I was reading. Apparently he heard three of them.

All of my kids love books. They see them as old and dear friends, but also as the new kid at school who's lived in a whole other city. Books are the best of familiar and comforting surroundings... the perfectly broken in shoe, or the worn and faded blue jeans that fit just right. And the best of the new and exciting... adventure without risk, suspense without danger.

And so they read and read and read. And I am so gratified to know that I did this one thing perfectly right.