Corner view is a weekly Wednesday gathering, originally hosted by Jane, now by Francesca. A topic is given and you can see impressions; be it photographic or writerly in form, from around the world. Come see the world’s corner view via the links on the sidebar!
“Which book do you want to read?” I ask thumbing through the shelf of colorful children’s books in the girl’s room. The two older girls, used to the routine shout out approximations of titles as they push past me to grab the latest Junie B. Jones and seasonal antics of Clifford and George. The baby teeters on the edge of the bed railing, surely tempting fate as she grins at our far-from-soothing bedtime routine. Lovey comes in and we settle ourselves into the bed for a few minutes of minding our storytime manners. I hear of families that read for an hour or more to lull their loves into slumber and that is not us. Not our lot in life. As difficult as that may be to bear for a bookaholic and aging philosopher. These children barely sit still long enough to turn the page in a chapter book. To make it to the Good Nighting of the moon is the equivalent of a Kilimanjaro climb most nights.
When Zuzu was a wee nursling in my arms I tried to do what the “good parent” books prescribed. I would find a sleepy Sandra Boynton rhyme to read to her as she settled into my arms. Her tiny fists grabbed those board books and whipped them away from us before Little Pookie could tell us what was wrong. Later as I would settle her at a safe arms distance in front of me I’d let the swing rock her to the sound of my voice. As soon as she was old enough to make her protests understood she would take the book back from me and insist on “reading” it herself. Storytime at the library, one of my most treasured childhood memories was a flaming disaster. As other children were rapt with the Librarian’s multitude of voices, I chased Zuzu, angling my body so she could see the stern look on my face as I retaped the decorations back to the wall, alternating that sternness with apologetic glances to the other mothers. Eventually I gave in. It was too much and frankly wrecking my nerves right along with my happy childhood memories. So instead we went to the park, to gymnastics, to the bouncehouses and we let Zuzu be the one to “read” to her babydolls instead.
When the Quail came along though, it was a different story. Oh how she loved to be read to! Her small voice would answer with a tiny moo to Ms. Boynton’s question of what a cow says. Once the words on the page formed a pattern for Zuzu, she would take it upon herself to slowly work her way through pieces of our treasury letting the Quail fill in when she could.
Along came Sugarplum. Once you sat down on the floor, she would back herself into your lap and reach to turn the pages along with you. As long as you were reading only to her. Her protests of little No’s rising up over our rhyming as her sisters would now come running to the parent parked at eye level. Come bedtime, she’s the first to dogpile her sisters as they line up their loveys and blankies for the night’s rest. “Storytime Manners” is the code word reminding everyone to pause. To listen. As one by one we share our part of the story. The read to becomes the reader. The baby becomes the school-age child. The childhood dream reshapes itself into the present day.
We try a little harder to pause a bit longer as the newly-minted seven-year old stumbles through a page of Junie B, holding out the picture to her sister who in turn, press her hand to her own chest. “My turn.” Insists the Quail as her parents yawn and suggest only 2 more pages. The Quail practices her site words as they float up from the Boynton books. “Red hat. Green hat. Blue hat. Oops.” Her ‘s’ sound magnified in her effort to enunciate each sound she sees. The baby claps along with us in praise of her sister’s accomplishment before lunging over the side of the bed railing yet again, caught up by her ankle at the last possible second before we insist it is time to rest one last time.