|HI KIDS! I HAVE TWO SPECTACULAR ONES I'D LIKE TO SHOW YOU!
Books. I'm talking about books. What did you think I was referring to? Weirdos.|
As a young mother, my mom saw to it that I was surrounded by literature. Likewise I, as a young mother, took pains to expose my girls to good books. (Particularly this one, which they adored in spite or perhaps because of the fact it gave them nightmares.) I also almost constantly ran around the house in the nude, which is why I was thrilled when my daughter, Piggly Wiggly's mom, asked for books for Christmas this year, proving she remembered the literature, not the trauma. (Either that or she's blocked it all out. I'm sure her therapist could be bribed to tell me.)
After 11 months in the company of a creature whose life revolves around breast milk and poop, she fears she's getting baby brain. "I can feel myself getting stupider," she texted plaintively. "Can you pls lend me some of your favourite books for Christmas?"
I didn't have too many of my favourites on hand, but I did give her Judith Hearne, Rebecca, The Number One Ladies Detective Agency and a few others. She texted me at 5:30 a.m. on Saturday to say "Holy crap, I stayed up all night reading Rebecca!" She couldn't have made me prouder if she'd texted: "I just figured out Ryan Gosling is my real dad!"
So today I went to the mall and bought two books I've been meaning to read, with the express intention of passing them on to Piggly's mom and my other secret daughter when I'm done with them. They may or may not choose to read them in the nude (although why would anyone choose "not"?), but I have faith that they, too, will pass on the rich tradition of reading to their daughters. Aside from my already-proven legacy of ethereal beauty, I can't think of a better gift I could leave to my fellow man.
EDITOR'S NOTE: *sigh* Of course she neglected to mention this, so if there's anyone still reading this flammable nightmare she calls a blog, the "two spectacular things" she's referring to are: The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman and How the Light Gets In by Louise Penny. Goosebump-inducingly good reads, both of them.