Here a Reader, There a Reader

Since she was very young, Adelaide has been an avid and enthusiastic reader.  It was something that came very easily to her; I didn't have to work with her or really teach her much after she grasped the sounds each letter made.  I remember how thrilled I was when I realized she was reading, but was it something we had to work at or slave over?  Never.

Not so with Atticus.

He's never been a particularly poor reader, he just hasn't shown much interest.  Did this bruise my sensitive reader's heart?  A little.  Not as much as I would have predicted even just a few years ago, though.  Thankfully in the intervening time I've come across a plethora of adults who admitted that, while they love to read now, they weren't big readers as youngsters.  This was a little shocking for me, who possibly spent more time in the pages of books than out, but was also encouraging when Atticus (gasp!) rarely picked up a book of his own volition.  He always loved to have me read to him- and still does, in fact- but he was no Adelaide, plowing through most of my old favorites before she'd finished kindergarten.

I've done what I can to try and pique his interest, and the book snob in me has been majorly tamed/beaten down/exsanguinated in the process.  Remember when Adelaide was seven and only allowed to read books I had first gone carefully over and approved?  LOLOLOLOL.  Yeah, no.  First of all, I would currently have to have an extra six hours per day to plow through all the books she consumes, and second, Atticus has zero interest in the classical path I managed to force Daughter down for a time.  Me from two years ago would likely choke on her only-Jack-London-this-week rhetoric if she could see the volume of Ninja Turtle trash fiction piling up in our boys' room.  But they're reading, okay?  Get off my back, former Kristy!

And it's working.

He wouldn't even come in the house yesterday afternoon, but insisted on plopping down there on the front porch because he couldn't wait to find out what happens next in Dragon of the Red Dawn.  I tried not to act overly excited for fear of making Magic Tree House somehow less cool in his eyes, but I may have blown this when I squeaked, "Oh!  OKAY!  Well, do you want a snack?  How about a freezer sandwich?  Everyone else is having a freezer sandwich!  Tell you what, I'll bring you one out here, just don't move, okay?  Just KEEP READING."  This compared to my usual after-school speech that goes something like, "Welcome home, my own darling darlings!  You may have this or this or this, but if you choose the snack that drops enough crumbs on my floor to serve as a makeshift burglar alarm, you will be eating outside, I don't care how many degrees below zero it is out there." 

At this point, in terms of reading, Caedmon falls somewhere between his two older siblings.  He doesn't love it as much as Adelaide (but really, who does?), but he's more interested than his brother.  Every week I bring home a coffee table book that rests on the desk in our front room when it's not being used for homework, in the hopes that just walking past some John Singer-Sargent will somehow make our children more cultured (probably I should go through the books with these kids of ours, but at this point, getting it in the door and leaving it lying open next to a main thoroughfare in our home is as much as I'm capable of).  This has enjoyed varying degrees of success, with the book on Monet being the most popular and the New York Times front pages book the least.  

This week the glossy book is on the Civil War, and Caedmon can't put it down.  He passes right by the photos of Lincoln.  He loves the photos of the cannon and soldiers.  He is gruesomely fascinated by the battlefield photos chock-full of corpses.  Again, past Me would be horrified.  Current Me can only sigh in defeat and microwave her coffee for the fifth time that morning. 

All this has led to a spate of Civil War interrogations from our resident five year old.  "Wait, who fought in the Civil War, again?  Well, which side were we on?  Does Grandma remember this?  Does anyone remember this?  If everyone is dead, then how do we know about the Civil War?  Do we have any books about the Civil War?  Can I read them?  Will you read them to me?"  All of which lead to this happening before breakfast this morning.

I'm leaving it to Derek to inform him that, when given the choice, you never pick Carl Sandburg over Shelby Foote.  It just isn't done.

After four minutes of light reading, he decided against the Sandburg and went back to the shelves, but this time found Maus, which I absolutely recommend to adults, but not so much for kids.  Besides, that's World War II fiction, son.  One war at a time.  Or none!  Can I interest you in some Ninja Turtles?

I had a hard time explaining that yes, Maus is illustrated, but no, it's not for you, Caedmon.  He finally relinquished his grip on my graphic novels after I promised him a visit to the library where we would check out no fewer than five Civil War books from the juvenile section.  Here's hoping my favorite librarians bring their A game to work tomorrow.  

As for me, I've recently run through a string of "it was okay," books and am ready for something to love with every nook and cranny and tiny, disused pocket of my heart.  I'm hoping this book, strongly recommended by my mother, fits the bill.  

No pressure, Ms. Bradley

Book Reviews. Six of Them, To Be Precise.

Books!  Let's talk about books today.  Or rather, I'll talk about books and you'll read maybe halfway through this post and get bored.  Terrific plan.

The following is another drive-by review of some of the books I've read over the past few months.  I'm not going to talk much about synopses or anything, but each title will be a link so you can read more about it if you're so inclined.  You can find a way to thank me later for not talking about all the books I've read over this long, loooong winter.  As always, I do accept cookies as currency.


The Boy in the Suitcase by Lene Kaaberol and Agnete Friis

Several professional reviews of this book refer to this as a "page-turner" and "get ready to put your life on hold" sort of book.  For me, I would read four or five pages, then have to put it down and walk away for awhile because this book was mega, mega stressful for me.  I read the first thirty pages a few months ago, then decided I did not need this book in my life.  When it was then handed to me as last month's book club selection I literally groaned out loud.  To be clear, it's well-written, with an interesting, twisty plot and relatively sympathetic protagonists, but if you have small children, like children in general, or spend any time whatsoever with children, it may be difficult to read.  





Savvy by Ingrid Law

Delightful YA fiction.  Sucked me right in, couldn't put it down, quick read.  Loved, loved, loved the characters.  Perfect reprieve after something like The Boy in the Suitcase.  Winner of the Newbery Honor Award.









I Am Malala:  The Girl Who Stood Up for Education and Was Shot by the Taliban by Malala Yousafzai with Christina Lamb

Adelaide begged to read this book, but as it's listed under adult nonfiction, I wanted to read it first to check its content.  Now I'm hoping our daughter does get all the way through it, so she can gain some perspective as to what life is like on the other side of the world, how fortunate she is for something we take for granted- education for girls- and how to have a positive (but not necessarily in a squishy, Pollyanna-ish way) attitude even when all seems lost and someone shoots you in the face.  This was an incredibly inspiring and encouraging read, and I can't help but admire Malala and her family enormously.






Unglued:  Making Wise Choices in the Midst of Raw Emotions by Lysa Terkeurst

I've had a few women rave to me about this book (It's so great!  I absolutely loved it!  I can't wait for you to read it!), and several more who were more, "Meh.  It was okay."  I'm solidly in the "meh" camp on this one.  She spells out some solid strategies on how to keep your cool when all you really want to do is lose it, but she does it in a way that I've come to think of as very soundbite-y.  I know she's a public speaker of some kind, and I couldn't help but think she's probably way better at verbal speaking engagements than she is at writing.  Phrases like "...how do I shift from having an attitude to walking in gratitude" had me rolling my eyes (this lady loves herself some rhymes, let me tell you what), but I did like the bit where she mentioned that she and her husband simply call out, "Remember who you are" to their children rather than listing a litany of reminders: Be kind, be honest, be polite, mind your manners, etc, etc.  I'm guessing this book really spoke to certain women who found it very timely to where they are in their lives, but... I just wasn't one of them.




Eleanor and Park by Rainbow Rowell

This book- a simple, young adult love story- has two of the most likeable (fictional) teenagers I may have ever come across.  Bella and Edward, they are not.  While this is a heartstring-yanker of a book, I did wonder a bit about its placement as Young Adult fiction, just because of some of the circumstances Eleanor- a high schooler with a pretty bleak home life- finds herself in.  There is nothing crass about it, and it is absolutely the kind of thing that, sadly, happens in real life, but it also isn't something I'd want a middle schooler reading.  I suppose I'd classify it as a "proceed-with-caution, younger YA readers" kind of novel.







Winter's Tale by Mark Helprin

First of all, this book is no joke: at 700+ pages long, you are making a commitment when you dive in.  When I (finally) finished the last page, my thoughts were:  FINALLY and Destined to become a classic and FINALLY and I need to read that every ten years to see how it changes for me as I (hopefully) gain a little more wisdom.  There are really, really long books that I want to be long, just so that I can enjoy a beloved story for as long as absolutely possible.  To be honest, this was not really one of those.  It felt long, even if it was an awe-inspiring piece of writing.  I recommend it if you're up for a challenge and some deep thinking.







You know what?  I forgot I said I'd break this up into a series of posts.  What a splendid idea.  It's nice to know I do have those every once in a while, even if I promptly forget them.  I'll try to come back and post some more books tomorrow.

Put The Book Down And Nobody Gets Hurt

We're in a little bit of a quandary.  A pickle, if you will.

"Read to your kids," they tell you.  "Provide plenty of books for your kids."  "Encourage your children to read themselves."

Read.  Read.  READ.

All of this is good.  I, too, love to read.  I want my children to be lovers of books.  Bibliophiles, if you will.


So here's my question:  How do you say, "Stop reading!"  but keep from discouraging them from... well, reading?

It's the whole too much of a good thing- thing.

See, Adelaide loves to read.  And we are delighted by this.  I love to watch her drinking in the words that I read in my youth, and I love that she is helping me discover new and talented children's authors.  It's fun.

Her reading has also started to become a problem, however.

It's hard for me teach in her class at church on Sundays, and watch her head straight for the corner to read a book alone while all the other kids socialize and play together.  Do I encourage her to try and interact with the other kids, or let her do what comes naturally and just read her heart out?  I know she's shy, and I don't want her to use books as a cloak or a crutch.  I don't want her to hide in the world of books and miss out what's happening around her.

She also often reads while riding the bus on the way home from school.  This, I'm okay with.  I don't blame her for wanting to tune out that frantic after-school atmosphere, and I know of at least three other kids that she reads her books to on a regular basis while they're heading home.

So she reads while sitting on the bus seat, sometimes to herself, sometimes to those sitting around her.  When she reaches her stop, she stands up, still reading, walks down the aisle, still reading, and walks down the steps, off the bus.  Still reading.

Do you remember those bus steps?  Have you taken a look at them recently?  They're tall.  Probably twice as steep as normal steps.  And for a 5-year-old?  That's a big drop-off.

It's terrifying, watching her stumble down those steps, nose buried in a book.  I'd thought about getting a photo of her doing it, but I'm too busy yelling, "Adelaide!  ADELAIDE!  PUT THE BOOK DOWN!"

My hollers are echoed by the bus driver behind her, imploring her to JUST PUT IT DOWN.  We sound like we're on the kiddie version of Law and Order: Huxley or something.

On many of the days when she's not endangering her life, she's crying because she's already fallen at some point.

I can handle saying, "No books at the table," and "Adelaide, for the love of all that is good in this world, put the book down and brush your teeth already!" over and over and over.

I never really considered that books could end up scarring our daughter-both literally and figuratively.

Hopefully, I'm just overreacting.  Now if you'll excuse me, it's almost time to go get Adelaide from the bus stop.  I like to get there early, waiting at the steps when the bus rolls to a stop and the doors open, in case I have to catch her as she falls down the steps.

Again.

The Reader

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.