After a year of reading Little Lion his favorite books, we don’t really read them anymore. The seven hundred times a day he wants to read, we just animatedly recite from memory. I confess, half the time, I’m not looking at the book. When I am looking, I see troubling things because I got bored. (Latest find: how many monkeys are jumping on the bed? If you carefully count how many monkeys are in each scene, it looks like the two chocolate monkeys are either spontaneously cloning themselves or up to some very sneaky business. I’m still working on it.)

When I was about three or four, I remember being told that there were reasons for things, and that it really was possible to look inside books and get out recorded stories. But I was suspicious–incredibly suspicious–and remember being convinced that grown-ups just made the stories up. Why was it always the same story? I didn’t know. But how could they read the book if they weren’t even looking at it?!

Well, now I know.

If some horrible apocalypse destroys all children’s books, and there are children crying everywhere, I for one take personal responsibility for reconstructing about half the works of Sandra Boynton. The other half–well, those children will just have to cry.

On a separate but equal note, we tried reading one of Little Lion’s books to him in stereo the other day. We didn’t plan it–we just both started reciting it by heart all at once, thinking he’d like it. At first he was bewildered and than he turned beet red and bawled inconsolably for five whole minutes. I guess stereo can be pretty scary…