Some time in the past six months, my son really got into his books. We've been trying to foist them on him since he could sit up straight, but before he mostly cared about the ones that played music or had pictures of animals. Now he actually "reads" them; not following every word like you or I would (he's only three, I'm not that deluded), but poring over every single page like it matters. Occasionally he'll disappear into his room and get very quiet. Fearing the worst, I holler, "What are you doing up there?" and he'll say, "I'm just readin.'" It makes my nerdy senses tingle.
The only drawback to this budding bookishness is that he also wants me to read to him all the time, and as encouraging as it may be for him to show an interest, I want to throw some of those books out the window. His favorites now are a couple books with pictures of all kinds of trucks, to which he points and asks, "What's that carry?" making me recite every single possible cargo. I feel horrible, but every time he requests one of those, I start setting arbitrary limits. "If you want me to read the truck books, that's it, no more. But if you want to read, say, this Richard Scarry book, I'll stay up here."
Thankfully, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer's Working Dad blog is on the lookout for more books that won't have parents considering a bonfire.
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