I remember sitting in bed as a young kid, maybe 4 or 5 years old. The pillows were bunched up behind me and I was half covered by a red and black flannel comforter – my mom sat next to me.
It was before bed, so I had gone through the rigmarole of brushing my teeth, washing my face and going to the bathroom – I hated it.
In the bend of my mom’s left arm was a book, and in her right arm, her only son. She would read me “The Story About Ping” by Marjorie Flack, or “The Five Chinese Brothers” by Clare Huchet Bishop, or “The Monster at the End of This Book” by Jon Stone – it was Grover by the way – in fact we had all of the Little Golden Books. And of course, the Little Critter books. And as she read to me, she ‘allowed’ me to work through some of the words myself.
This was a nightly occurrence – and there were 4 of us, so she put in some time trying to get her kids to read. But I think it was more about spending time and making a memory – and she succeeded because those memories stuck with me. And even to this day, recalling them can bring me to tears when I think about that young boy in his mommy’s arms.
Kids look at the world with such awe and wonder. I wanted to visit the Yangtze River, or hang out with Grover - those books had an impact on me.
This big place we rush around in can be awesome, but it can also be nerve-racking and scary for a kid.
When I was little, I was scared of pooping.
My mom knew it. She knew it because she asked me about it.
If you take a second and ask your little one, “What are you afraid of?” the answer they give might surprise you.
And when you find out, let me know, I might even write a book about it.
So you see, Even This Page Has a Purpose.
- Uncle Paul
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