Raising a bookworm

Many years ago when baby was just a gleam in my and another old boyfriend's eye (yes that long ago), I started collecting a few children's books that I discovered here and there in used bookstores and neighborhood garage sales. Over time I had collected nearly all of the Dr. Seuss series, some funny books on explaining reproduction to children, and one or two of my all time favorites including Beverly Cleary's Ribsy and the story of James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl. These books got dragged from home to home and relationship to relationship and eventually floated their way all the way to France in a mailsack destined for a house that was sadly still without babies.

Moving on to happier times, as soon as baby S exited the womb a small bookshelf was already full and waiting. He was going to be a reader like it or not. If he didn't like football or baseball or race cars so be it. I really didn't care. If he didn't like reading though it was going to be over my dead body. Oh and rock and roll. He'd better like good rock music and a few show tunes, well, actually a lot of show tunes but that part was going to be easy with all those irresistibly catchy lyrics. Who could possibly resist Rodgers & Hammerstein ?

I started reading to baby S at about two weeks old, but he was squirmy and colicky and cried all the time so it wasn't easy to hold him and turn pages and read very LOUD over the wailing vocal chords all while trying to manage the complexities of breastfeeding. I decided to wait until the creepy newborn stage was finished and the calm textbook baby had arrived. That was the baby I'd read to. I tried again several times at three months and four months but he still seemed unwilling to listen and only wanted to be held and FED. It was a while before I tried again. The next time it wasn't until baby S had reached the ripe age of seven months. But, by this age he'd learned the fine art of grasping and ripping and shredding and so it was impossible to read to him because of that and well, because I was exhausted all the time. I was too exhausted to manage baby and book and I found that by the time the story got going the baby was long gone into the something else and distracted by the shake of this or the rattle of that. The stories often started out with "One, Fish, Two F...now don't touch that...okay Red Fish, Blu...now okay can you stop now....you mustn't put that in your ..." and finally with much effort another classic was shelved and marked as read.

Over time I learned we could carry on reading much better if baby S was locked in his baby proof cell of a bedroom and was allowed to sprint casually about listening or not. He only occasionally tried prying the book out of my fingers or rudely stepped on the corners of the pages while I tried to turn them. More often than not he valiantly bounded on top of my head, using my hair strands as climbing harnesses. It was his own unique way of listening. He eventually became a pretty good listener and we finally got through more than a few stories a week. It wasn't easy getting there.

These days things are much, much better. We now manage a few stories a day and we always and without fail have the classic bedtime story each night with the whole family participating. Seb has naturally become the designated French storyteller and I have become the English one, with us taking turns as much as possible and trying desperately to become the best animator and thus baby S's favorite parent, uh I mean reader. We try to balance his little book collection as much as possible too so that he can see that both languages are equally important but this isn't always easy. English books have to be shipped and French books usually leave something to be desired. A great literary nation this is sadly not. *

All this hard work has really payed off though. Baby S seems to really enjoy books now. He has even taken to reading on his own. He'll casually pick up a book, plop it in his lap upside down and turn the pages chattering all the while in baby gibberish. It's beyond adorable. He'll often hand the book to me and grunt indicating that he'd like to be read to please and wouldn't I like to have my head climbed on at the same time while I'm just sitting there doing practically nothing? I'll agree and we'll make our way through a "Goodnight Moon" or a "Brown Bear, Brown Bear" and make our way through it once again if that isn't enough, or if my head needs more climbing on, which it usually does.

In all of this I think I learned one important thing. It's not the book that's really so important. What's important is the time you spend with your children where they see you relaxed, they hear your voice and they get to interact with you, be it a cuddle or a climb, whatever their style may be. It doesn't have anything to do with the beginning or the ending of this or that tale. It's actually all in the telling.

*I have a really tough time finding good, original French children's books. I have found that many of the children's books are namby-pamby board books "Boomby the bear smiled" "Boomby made his bed" "Boomby went to sleep" etc. They lack the charm of an Eric Carle's, butterfly humbe evolution from a ravenous caterpillar or a the silly, nonsense polkas of a Dr. Seuss story. There are a scant few classic French tales and we have several of the Grimm's tales told in French, but they lose their charm and are unfortunately often translated in a dry, colorless tone. For example the wolf doesn't "huff and puff" he simply "destroys the house" which of course seriously detracts from the telling of the story. I've shelved this one because if a wolf can't huff and puff what good is he? So if anyone knows of any French classics I beg you to please tell me the titles because I'm still searching for something inspiring and creative. (Le Petit Prince is of course a huge exception and is probably the best children's story ever told.)