Hobson's Choice
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children's books
Here's the story on children's books:
When I was childless, I wondered why parents got trapped into reading books they hated over and over again. Really, who were they up against? Infants, toddlers, people who cannot drive the car and cannot put on their shoes; i.e., adversaries who cannot haul themselves down to the bookstore to select their own reading material. The parents should buy books they like and read those. There are at least two problems with this argument (and woe betide me as a clueless non-parent only four years ago).
First, even books you adore, when read 5-10-15 times a day for months at a time, become loathsome. We adults are not wired for that kind of repetition. Sandra Boynton does not stand up to 10 times a day; Cynthia Rylant does not; Charlotte Zolotow does not. Without testing the hypothesis, I am going to say there is no writer alive or dead who can stand that level of repetition. Tolstoy, Melville, Dickinson, great writers, but not ten times a day. In some ways, it's a relief when your child latches on to a book you don't like because then you don't have to watch your beloved author destroyed in your mind through overuse. In your child's mind, of course, the writer will only become more beloved, the more repeated.
Second, the issue of readerly choice comes up surprisingly early. Because you're going to go to the library, aren't you? I mean, it's one of the few things you can do with your kid that's free. And also, they have story hour, rarely an actual hour, but always some blessed minutes when someone else does the entertaining and you can let your jaw hang slack with exhaustion (unless you're trying to make friends with the other moms, and then just lean against the wall and close your eyes -- even new moms are skeptical of gaping mouths.)
So once you've made the fatal choice to open the library doors, you can wave goodbye to any control you've maintained over juvenile reading material. Your tiny baby will crawl over to the bookshelves, perilously haul herself up, and begin her life as an independent reader. You will be captivated by this moment; you will reminisce about the books you loved as a child; your olfactory memory will surface with the scents of your own childhood library; you may shed a tear about the journey your child is beginning.
And then you will notice that your child has selected, "Baby Fozzie Is Afraid of the Dark." You will remember that your child can't actually read yet and that someone is going to be required to read this book to her, possibly ten times per day. It will be you. Although I take pains to hide Baby Fozzie every time we walk into the children�s section, I have now accepted the fact that eventually I will read every book about doctor visits that the Cabell County Public Library owns. I have already read many of them, and I will read them all if "Blue Goes to the Doctor" doesn't force me to drive sticks into my eyes.
(By the way, if you're going to pick one book about doctor visits, I'd go with Sesame Street's "I want to be a doctor" since it gives you time to ponder Granny Bird's terrible mistakes on the child welfare front. I know she's sprained her ankle, but does that really mean a 6 year old bird should be responsible for getting the meals, dressing Granny, and calling for a taxi? If you have an anxious child, pick "Farley goes to the doctor)
And that's all I have to say tonight about the tragedies of children's literature. I'm a kind person; I'm not even going to get started on the kinds of books that loving friends and relatives will bring into your house for your child and you.
7:34 p.m. - 2005-08-12
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