I am overjoyed with Adelaide's love of reading.
Anymore, it often feels like all she wants to do is read. She often comes home from school and, needing time to decompress after a long day of having to be social, curls up with a book. I don't know how many times I've recently had to say, "No books at the supper table," or, "Adelaide, put the book down and brush your teeth/ get dressed/ put the silverware away." She loves to read, and I love that.
There have, however, been a few drawbacks to this new-found affinity for the written word.
See, I love to read, too. At our house, you're likely to see a paperback on the table, one on the kitchen counter, another next to the couch. I like to have to them scattered throughout the house, just in case I have an empty minute or two throughout the day that could possibly be devoted to reading.
A few weeks ago, I realized I may have to change this practice. For the most part, I read fiction, and one of the genres I enjoy is Mystery. I don't know how many mysteries you've read, but their plots commonly involve activities about which I don't necessarily want our five-year-old daughter receiving a premature education.
Recently, as I was preparing supper in the kitchen, I heard Adelaide's sharp intake of breath, and she exclaimed, "Mom! Why would this guy kill his friend? And what's this word? It's spelled m-a-c-h-e-t-e." I turned around, and sure enough, there was our daughter, nose in a murder mystery.
I've since tried to more closely monitor what I leave lying around. No more Agatha Christie on the couch.
Even undertaking those measures, she still surprises me every few days with the reading material she manages to procure. Earlier today, for instance, Adelaide caught my attention, then said, "Hey Mom, listen to this: 'Don't throw out those coffee grounds you used to brew your morning cup- apply them directly to your thighs!'"
"Adelaide, what on earth are you reading?"
"Just a magazine. What's cellulite?"
The scary part is I know it's only going to get worse.