I recently stopped by my parents’ house to, among other things, pick up some of my old toys and books so that they could reclaim part of their basement and so that my kids could benefit from new stimulation. An added bonus is that I can get a kick out of seeing them play with my childhood stuff and read the stories that I used to enjoy to my own kiddos.
Concerning the books, I flipped through each one, thrilled that I remembered it. Then I packed up all my old goodies and went home, distributing books according to which ones I thought each child would enjoy. Never mind that the task wasn’t all that hard since I only have two girls; it’s the concept that counts, right?
But then something disturbing occurred. I started reading these stories to my girls. And, while I absolutely remember the artwork — the lazy balloons floating around while the two kids planned a party for their mom in “The Birthday Party” or the puddle-jumper, snoozing bear and struggling seed in “Splish Splash” or the great-great-grandfather wearing the alligator’s skin in “Old Hasdrubal” — I didn’t remember the stories much at all.
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