I was one of those weird pregnant ladies who would read poetry to my womb. Every morning. Before work, I would toast myself 2 frozen waffles loaded with butter and syrup and sit down to read a few chapters from a book of Mother Goose collections. Don’t judge me. I had to eat waffles because they were the only thing that didn’t make me feel like I had to hurl. Besides, she was getting some nursery rhymes in return. Swapping brain food for umm, brain food? What’s so bad about that?
Why did I do it? Not the waffle thing, but the poetry thing. Because I had read somewhere that if you start reading rhymes to your fetus, they will turn out brilliant. Brains courtesy of Little Boy Blue. Who would have thunk? This habit of reading to her continued on from the day she was born until she just didn’t want me to read to her any more. When was that? I can’t pinpoint a date. I will wager a guess at somewhere right around tween-dom.
Needless to say, we had accumulated about a million books throughout the years. A million. And now here I am almost 16 years later with them all over the house. In her room, on shelves, in closets, in the playroom that is no longer the playroom. Everywhere. It was time.
So, with all the energy I could muster, I got myself a couple of cardboard boxes and started neatly piling children’s books into them. One by one. Each one a memory. Angelina Ballerina, Dr. Suess, Goodnight Moon, Tomie dePaola, just to name a few. I gave them to a friend of mine who has a bunch (yes, a bunch…no lie) of young children. I knew they were going to a good home. Why should I be selfish and keep them to myself, allowing them to collect dust? Not being touched by anyone? It was time to share the love.
I was surprised by my emotions. I know I sound sappy. But it was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do in a long time. So many memories. I used to love bedtime. Not only so that I could have quality time with my glass of wine, but because The Kid and I would snuggle up in her bed and I would read to her (no, I didn’t drink wine while reading to her). Three books. That was the limit. Three books of her choosing. Every night no matter what. Well, I would swap with DH but he read to her too. Every single night.
Aaah, those were the days. Now I have to worry about her driving in a couple of months and going out with boys and hoping she doesn’t try marijuana. Oh Lord. I’m having a panic attack. I think I want my books back. Or at the very least, visitation rights. Think my friend will mind?