The Enchantment of Books

Few things thrill me more than the look of absolute delight that appears on Finny’s face when I pick up a book he loves. He grins widely and lays his head back on my shoulder waiting for the show to begin. When we get to the part he really loves, he giggles a little and sometimes even takes the boomie out of his mouth so that he can grin just a little wider.

We started reading books together from a very young age when Finny was only weeks old. I would lay him upright on my propped up knees and read him Eric Carle’s The Very Grouchy Ladybug. At that point his eyes were still crossed and he could do little but squirm and wriggle and beg for milk, but he always listened intently to the story of the classic battle for tiny green aphids and that ladybug who just couldn’t find the right guy to pick a fight with.

I’m not quite sure what Finny got out of books at that age, but everything you read tells you to read, read, read to your babies early and often, and I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to infect him with the contagious love of a great story.

As Finny got bigger and could begin to focus not only his eyes but his attention, it was such fun to see that he actually had preferences for certain books and aversions to others. Early on, Guess How Much I Love You, a personal favorite of mine, couldn’t quite hold his attention, but he never turned down an opportunity to hear about kitten and mittens and mush in Margaret Wise’s Goodnight, Moon. David once asked, “What is it about Goodnight, Moon? What makes it so special? Why is the old woman a rabbit? And why say goodnight to nobody?”

Maybe it has something to do with the rhythm of her words, the slow, sleepy bedtime ritual of saying goodnight to simply everything and nothing. That room is so great and so green—hardly anyone uses that paint color in bedrooms anymore. And that fire is so red and full and cozy, if not a little hazardous since it is left burning all night in the baby rabbit’s bedroom.

Maybe for Finny though, it has little to do with rabbits or mush or bears in chairs. Maybe it’s just that he simply loves pointing to the moon. He looks for it on every page and points it out every time. Whether arced or full, he knows the moon’s face and loves to find it in the nighttime sky.

As Finny has gotten older he has started to appreciate rhyme and illustration more and more and with that came a love for Sandra Boynton. Pajama Time, The Going to Bed Book, What’s Wrong Little Pookie?—he loves them all. And so does David. “I would marry Sandra Boynton,” David once remarked, “She’s so clever and silly and has such good, fun illustrations. Now she knows how to write a book.” And so, without fail, if David is in charge of bedtime, you can bet you’ll hear “Jammy, jammy, jammy, jammy P.J.!” echoing out of the monitor on the kitchen counter.

For a while there, Finny wanted nothing to do with a story that didn’t have a flap to lift and tear, and so we read a lot of Karen Katz and Peekaboo, Blueberry!, and I spent a lot of time with my roll of Scotch tape. Then it was sounds. He loved anything with a button to press again and again and again and again.

As the reader, I occasionally get bored with the same old books and try to throw a new one in from time to time, but much like his daddy, Finny is a tough critic. Sometimes I make it through the first few words, sometimes the first few pages, sometimes I don’t get a chance to open the book at all before Finny is slamming it shut, pushing it away and pointing to a familiar story he loves. Then, when I pick up The Big Red Barn or The Eensy Weensy Spider Finny lays his head back and grins.

Lately, I know he must be growing up because more and more he’s allowing me to read him a new story. Although hesitant at first, now he can’t get enough of Totty by Paola Opal, and every time the turtle goes “Splash! Yippie!” Finny laughs as if he too knows what fun it is to slide down a hill of sand in a turtle shell. I’ve also been able to get through Green Eggs and Ham from beginning to end, and today he wouldn’t let me read anything but Hi, Pizza Man!, which we read five times before I couldn’t take it anymore and laid him down for his nap. (David asks, “What’s so special about Hi, Pizza Man!? I don’t like that the cat is wearing a dress.”)

There is something enchanting about a great story, something magical about being taken out of your world and transplanted into the world of the book. It’s wonderful that old women can be rabbits, that kitty cats can dress in pearl necklaces, that hippos sometimes exercise with lions, and that gorillas sometimes follow the zookeeper home at night and snuggle up between him and his wife. I hope that Finny’s world is full of fun and adventure and silliness and play, but when it’s not, when it’s cold and rainy and we’ve played with all the toys in the toy box too many times, I hope that Finny always finds the joy and enchantment that comes with the world of a storybook, and I hope as long as possible that he’ll sit on my lap and let me go there with him.