I don’t have children*, so I don’t spend a lot of time with them. In fact, as an alpha male mammal, I sometimes feel a vague urge to eat children that are not mine for the sake of genetic dominance.
Even so, I think I know a thing or two about them. I was once a child myself, as I’m sure a few of you were, and even after all the brain cells I sacrificed in my twenties I still remember a couple of things about the experience.
When I really try to think back to my earliest memories I can’t help but notice the common theme of books. I recall laying on the floor of my grandparent’s hallway and looking up the rows of books on the shelf, intoxicated by the smell of the old books and the classy-looking leather covers. I remember the bedtime rituals at our house, when my sister and I would choose a book for Mom to read to us before bed. It started with picture books. I remember a particular favorite that involved Grover from Sesame Street, but I don’t remember any details of the plot, which was probably incredibly complex.
Seeing this theme can only lead me to believe that books must be pretty important. At least to a kid like me they were. And unlike my early interest in all things having to do with dinosaurs, this interest did not fade.
Today’s prompt has a nostalgic feel to it. Lets run with that.
What is the first book you remember reading? Do you read to your kids?
*No. I’m not gonna follow this phrase about not having kids with that terrible old joke and say, “that I know about.” I’m just not gonna do it. You deserve better. Instead, I tried a joke about wild animal behavior which, if delivered wrong, could come off totally cannibalistic. You’re welcome.