|A painting for my mum from a photo of the two of us, circa '78|
I've been wondering how to write this post without sounding cliched but it's been itching away at me so here goes. It's not original but it's love. Ever since I was a toddler, I've always had my head buried in one. That's not to say I have particularly or exclusively literary tastes. I'm a book tart. Any kind. From Iris Murdoch to Mills and Boon, chick-lit, science, thrillers (Lee Child is my most recent obsession) and, of course, children's books. And even though I'm a time-challenged mum, I can always squeeze in a bit of reading time. Since having Laurie I've always read a book while feeding him, and now when he wants some boob he goes off in search of whatever novel I'm reading and totters over with it.
|What I've been reading recently. It piles up by the bed.|
And I think, I hope, this love has rubbed off on the boys. We are overflowing with children's books and I'm always being told off for buying them but it's a weakness. I admit, I want them to love books. Not because I want to push them into reading early, but because it's a lifetime of enjoyment. And so many boys are turned off reading early on and struggle with it at school... John Scieszka explains it so much more eloquently on his brilliant website Guysread. It doesn't help that the reading scheme books that the kids have to bring home to read to mum and dad are so dull. When there are so many brilliant, imaginative and hilarious kid's books out there I think something is a little skeewiff. Actually, come to think of it, I'm pretty sure that Sam learned to read by looking at the Beano while sitting on the toilet.