Letter Blocks

[#1]

I've been reading aloud to my son since long before he was born eight months ago, mostly whatever I happen to be reading at the time. It has become our ritual at mealtimes: he waits patiently for me to find my page in a Deborah Eisenberg story collection or Death In The Family by James Agee or a dogeared page in one of the millions of New Yorker magazines I've only half-read, we settle in together, and off we go. He has a particular liking for poetry, possibly for the singsongy nature of more formal verse, possibly because I put on an especially pious face when reading poetry aloud, and we stare at each other for the length of the poem, solemn as owls.

Maybe it's because of this constant daily reading that when it's time for bed, he has little patience for most of his children's books. No On The Day You Were Born or Love You Forever for him. Maternal guilt has tipped me off to the fact that this is probably all my fault. I have little patience for the frequently moralizing or pedagogical tone in a lot of children's books, and maybe he hears a bit of weariness or dismay in my voice when I read these to him.

The books we both get a kick out of tend to be purely fun and sometimes terrifying, and if there is a moral, it's lost under heaps of delight. All the Eloise stories are favorites, most of Dr. Seuss, and, most recently, my gorgeously illustrated collection of Grimms' fairy tales. They are wicked and bloody and wondrous things, and I can get him to sit still for the length of even extremely long stories-Furrypelts, The Devil With His Three Golden Hairs, Mother Holle.  For a baby whose changing mat most closely resembles a WWF wrestling ring, this moment of respite is practically a miracle.

At eight months old, language is still an ocean of strange noises and tones, and it is hard to know how much of any narrative my little boy can understand. What is clear is that he does understand that stories should thrill and delight and frighten and sing, that they should be living and breathing things, and that we should love them and long for them. Every day that we find our way in the dark forests, beset on all sides with danger, and he sits there, stroking Rapunzel's golden ropy hair and breathing heavily from his mouth, it reminds me that babies are much smarter than we sometimes remember. What a wonderful thing.

Editor's Note: Lauren Groff is the bestselling author of The Monsters of Templeton and Delicate Edible Birds and Other Stories.

Message Edited by PaulH on 07-02-2009 07:46 AM