It occurs to me that some of you may not fully appreciate what I meant when I said, recently, that Dear Wife and I had created a monster.
I submit, for your consideration, the following:
It is my supposition that B.T.can’t actually read the book he pulled off of my shelf. But that’s not going to stop him from trying!
All he knows for sure is that what he’s picked up is a book, and if there’s one thing he loves, it’s books.
Some related facts about B.T. and books:
The first thing B.T. asks for when he wakes every morning is a book. Literally. When either Dear Wife or I go in to get him in the morning, he smiles, jumps up for us to pick him up, and then says “Book?”
The second-to-last thing B.T. wants every night before going to sleep is, you guessed it, to sit on Mommy or Daddy’s lap and read a book. (The very last thing he asks for? A song. Or two, or three. One thing he loves as much as books is music.)
On any given day, Dear Wife and I may read between 5 and 50 books to B.T. (More on weekends, naturally, when he’s around us the whole day.)
It is not unheard of, when Dear Wife brings B.T. home from daycare, for B.T. to instruct Dear Wife as follows: “Call Daddy. Daddy read book.” His intention is clear to us. He wants Dear Wife to call me and tell me to come home so I can read him a book. Typically, he will accept Mommy reading a book or ten to him in the interim.
I had an old Economics textbook sitting around, leftover from my recent stint in an evening MBA program. Having no further use for it, it was time to clear it out. B.T. cried when I took it out of the house. He’d grown fond of it, despite the fact that it had very few pictures.