C:\> Tuesday, October 21, 2025

Bedtime Reading

Books always were a major part of my life, the importance of reading always stressed when I was growing up not by lecturing but by modeling. Books were everywhere, shelves full of volumes that provided an escape to other worlds and cultures before the easy access to the internet we all have now.

My grandmother was an elementary school librarian, and she spend hours reading to me when I was young, favorites being the Curious George oeuvre.

We all had our own library card, and as soon as I was able I’d ride my bike to one of the local public library branches in my village after school and spend hours in the stacks before riding home again in the quickly approaching dark.

I’d unpack the books in my room and sit in my comfy chair for hours reading while listening to music, so much so that I wore out the carpet where my feet touched in front of the rocker that was my cockpit to other worlds.

When Adrianna was born, naturally reading was an important activity for her, and one that we shared together from the moment she could hold her head up on her own. When she was an infant and toddler, we’d read board books to her while she sat in our lap, her eyes bright with curiosity, taking in all the images from the page and listening intently to the words as we read them aloud to her.

Often, especially after repeated readings she’d reach out to the page to turn in to one that pleased her more, and we’d make a game of looking for otherwise unnoticed images and scenes in the background. I’d ask her questions about what we were looking at: colors, animal names, counting, whatever. She’d smile and laugh and want to immediately start from the beginning the moment the final page was turned.

When she was a bit older, four five six or seven, we’d read together as I attempted to lay her down for bed to transition to an activity she never wanted: the end of the day and bedtime. Here I’d have her sound out a word or two, and we’d talk in a bit more complexity about the plot with lots of “why” questions initiated by both of us.  These would be the larger picture books, so often with wonderful and amazing Caldecott Award winning illustrations.

During this time I’d often find her reading some of these books to Simba, her cat, or one of her dolls, or a meeting of several Barbies hanging out on her bed.

Later, when she was ten eleven or twelve the bedtime ritual would end with reading a chapter book, covering a chapter (and occasionally two) each night before finally turning out the light. Often during this era we’d take turns reading, depending on how tired she was, or how tired she was willing to admit she was. We’d save longer books for the summer, and we’d portion the pages out so the book would span her entire time with me.

Besides the bedtime reading of this era, she’d also plow through dozens of others that she had checked out using her Dallas library card. We’d go to the library at least twice a week a turnover of usually a have dozen or so books each time. Sometimes she’d be partaking in some summer reading program and receive stamp after stamp for each book read and we’d feast on the small personal pan pizza and Pizza Hut that was the most common reward, but usually she’d just read to read.

We read hundreds and hundreds of books together in this manner, but three stand out, one from each “era.”

1. Board book from infant/toddler era:

I am a Bunny, illustrated by Richard Scarry, written by Ole Risom

This was one of if not the first we’d read to her, a short little tale about Nicolas the Bunny with wonderful whimsical illustrations by Scarry. We read it so often the words were and are still seared into m brain. It began:

“I am a bunny. My name is Nicolas. I live in a hollow tree.”

Every page would have colorful illustrations, many depicting the different seasons, full of images to look at and marvel at. A favorite page showed dozens and dozens of butterflies, and Adri would always linger here at all the beautiful colors.

Each page would have Nicolas somewhere, so the ritual would become me asking Adri after the page had been read, “Where’s the bunny?”, and then I’d wait for her to locate Nicolas and point to him.

It would end in winter:

“When winter comes, I watch the snow falling from the sky. Then I curl up in my hollow tree and dream about spring,” and she’d point to Nicolas as he drifted into dreamland.

2. Picture books, 4 – 7 years

Where the Wild Things Are, written and illustrated by Maurice Sendak

This book probably needs no introduction. It was a favorite of mine when I was that age, and it quickly became a favorite of Adri’s as well. We’d read it at bedtime, close the back cover, and then read it again. Often, we’d read it three times.

We loved Max. We loved his wolf suit. We loved the wild things and how they "roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws," and we loved how Sendak’s illustrations were full of whimsy and character. Even during all their terrible behavior, the beasts would appear smiling and unthreatening.

In the middle of the book there are three facing pages with no text, just great illustrations of the “wild rumpus” that Max and the beasts partake in. Adri loved the word “rumpus” here, and over the course of those pages we’d sing a song, nonsense syllables to the tune of “Tequila” (for some reason.) At one point we’d point out the bare human feet on one of the beasts and instead of shouting “Tequila!” we’d say, “I’ve got smelly feet!”

“Ba DUM ba da DUM da DUM dum… Ba DUM da da DUM da DUM… I’ve got smelly feet!”

I guess you had to be there.
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And when Max finally returned home and found his supper waiting for him, we’d both say in unison,

“…and it was still hot.”

We couldn’t get enough of Sendak’s works and images. I still can’t.

A few years ago while working at Half Price Books I came across a beat-up copy of Where the Wild Things Are in the trash in the buy area, and I rescued it out of nostalgia, and then discovered that it was inscribed by Sendak on the title page. I had it priced appropriately and immediately purchased it for Adri, planning on giving it to her when she was older with her own kids. I first wanted to get a dust jacket for it, but never did, and I never did give it to her. Time just slipped by when I wasn’t noticing. It’s a big regret.

3. Chapter books, 7 -10

Harriet the Spy, written and illustrated by Louise Fitzhugh

We read this wonderful book about eleven-year-old Harriet, a writer-in-training who keeps copious notebooks of observations of the neighborhood around her. The notebook eventually gets stolen, and Harriet uses various spy gadgets and techniques to get back at the kids who took her notebook.
Harriet is an outsider who has some close friends, who loves to write and is a keen observer of human behavior. Harriet as well as those of us reading this book learn the power of words, which can both hurt and heal.

We spent the entire summer reading this one when she was eight. She was happy to learn that keeping notebooks and such was not such an odd thing peculiar to just her, and she loved all the gadgets Harriet used, or “utensils” as Adri called them.

After we finished, we learned that a movie staring Michelle Trachtenberg was about to be released, and we of course had to go see it. As is often the case, the film did not capture or create the same kind of magic that reading the book together had over the course of that summer.

During the subsequent summer we read two follow ups, “Sport” and “The Long Secret,” but nothing could match the magic of the original.

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I got other books for Adri that I’d give to her as Christmas and birthday presents, always trying to seek out the current and former Newbery Award winners which were almost always uniformly terrific. These included From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, It’s Like This, Cat, The View from Saturday, Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, Summer of the Swans, and countless others.

Most of these she’d read on her own, and she loved them almost as much as I loved that she loved them, but the three I mention here will always represent and remind me of a special part of my daughter and her memory, of her life and our moments together, when the day had ended and the sun had set as we quietly bonded over words before falling asleep with hopeful dreams of another tomorrow to follow. 
 

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