I’ve spent the past couple of nights reading The Tales of My Father’s Dragon. It got me kind of teary-eyed (though it’s not a teary story) because I’m pretty sure it’s the first book my son handed to me and insisted that I read.
Normally it is me thrusting books into his hands, or reading them out loud with our knees making mountains of the covers. I gave him the Encyclopedia Brown books from my childhood and my battered copy of Patrick Will Grow. My husband and I fought over who would read The Phantom Tollbooth (he won, unfortunately, and they proceeded to read it three times, but I won for Half Magic, the Moomin books, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.) When my son was sick with Strep throat I held up a copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. “Whoa,” he said.