Listening

I've just been listening to G reading bedtime stories to Leo. We're trying to introduce a new book to Leo's repertoire, which is always a slow process, as, with literature at least, he is very much a creature of habit. Cue much laughter from G who hid Leo's favourite book under the chair in an attempt to get him to listen to the new story (Honk by Mick Inkpen, if you were wondering), only to have his normally still, attentive, thumb-sucking reader turn into a wriggling, squirming, multi-limbed monkey as he brushed aside Honk and tried to reach Peepo Baby (by Georgie Birkett, a favourite now and the first book he ever really engaged with.)

As well as it making me smile inside and out to hear the two people I love most having such a good time together, I learn a lot from listening to G (and others) read with Leo. The pacing is often very different to mine and their intonation and emphasis varies radically which can really change the focus of story and give me ideas for next time I read the same book with Leo. My favourite bit about listening surreptitiously at the door though is the little asides: where's the cat?; can you point to the apple?; I've already read that three times!; quack quack; I really think it's time for bed now; oh okay then just once more...

The Laureates' Selection

Listening to the radio while driving to work on Tuesday, I heard Anne Fine talking about a selection of favourite children's books created by all 5 of the children's laureates. The story in the media seemed largely focused on the fact that only five of the 35 books chosen were written in the last 20 years. The implication seemed to be that, as with many things, modern is bad and old is good. Fine's view was that their choice wasn't surprising but nor did it imply that modern children's literature is bad: she and the other laureates were asked to select their favourite children's books and this was obviously going to bias them towards books which had made the biggest impressions on their childhood.

I enjoyed reading their list, not because I think it is a list of the best 35 books ever written for children but because I invariably choose my next book to read based on recommendations from other people, and they seem like suitably well qualified recommenders! There will be plenty of opportunities for Leo to read modern literature, but I do hope he also reads and enjoys many of the books on their list.

For what it's worth, the list included some of my childhood favourites: The Box of Delights by John Masefield, Five Go to Smuggler's Top by Enid Blyton, and Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. It's prompted me to go and reread Ballet Shoes by Noel Streatfeild and to seek out Emil and the Detectives by Erich Kastner because I loved Lotte & Lisa by him. I'm off to Amazon right now...

That's not my book.

That's not my book. Its adjectives are too banal.
That's not my book. Its story is no different to the previous one in the series.
That's not my book. Its publishers are making money for old rope.
That's my book. It's not an annoying touchy-feely one by Usborne.

(But Leo does really love the puppy one.)

Sore throat

This morning before Leo's nap, he made me read:
- My Mum by Anthony Browne - twice
- Boo Barney by Alex Ayliffe - twice
- The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle - thrice

Now, where did I put the Strepsils?

The simplest ideas are the best

I read an old interview with Allan Ahlberg yesterday in which he gave his thoughts on encouraging children to read. In it he mentions that his wife Janet discovered that if she put a book in the cot with their daughter, when she woke up she would pick up the book and start turning the pages.

Why have I not thought of this genius idea before? Leo is usually sat up waiting for us when we go in to his room in the morning. Leafing through the pages of a book in his cot has to be far more exciting than sitting with only an inanimate teddy for company. So last night as I put him to bed, I placed a book (Each Peach Pear Plum by the Ahlbergs, naturally!) in the corner of his cot. When I walked in at 7.30 this morning, he was turning the pages and looking at the pictures. As I said, genius!

Two books by Anthony Browne

Friends of ours, S & L, bought Leo some books when he was born, all of them favourites of their son. Two of them were by Anthony Browne: My Dad and My Mum.

I do love these books. The board book versions (also available in paperback, I think) are the perfect size for a baby or toddler to hold and turn the pages, as they are neither too long nor too square, plus the text on each page is minimal which makes them the ideal length for reading to a page-turning obsessive with a short concentration span (i.e. Leo). Both are witty and sweet and tender and fun, and the illustrations are beautifully conceived. Mum and dad are not the most beautiful people in the world; they just look pretty ordinary really. Both look tired, and a little flabby and frayed around the edges.

Each picture is recognisably mum and dad, even when it is something else entirely. When mum is a beautiful butterfly, she is covered in the same flower-print as mum's robe; when dad swims like a fish, the fish's dressing gown is tied with a brown rope belt just like dad's.

Even the ending "I love my dad. And you know what? He loves me (and he always will)" somehow manages to be sweet and sentimental rather than cloying. Dad - as does mum - envelopes child in a big bear hug, and all seems right with the world.

It's lucky that I like these books, because at the moment I have to read them several times every evening before bed. My only concern is that Leo has a marked preference for My Dad to the extent that he refuses to listen to My Mum, or any other story, if My Dad is anywhere in the vicinity. If I were a slightly more paranoid parent than I already am, I might take this as a sign that I am surplus to requirements!

Leo

Leo has just turned 1. He crawls very fast, but shows no interest in walking. He is Scandinavian blonde, but without the Viking ancestry, and takes after his tall, slim dad. He likes pointing to planes in the sky and playing with his stacking cups. He loves curry and spinach and Marmite but hates broccoli.

When I was pregnant with Leo, I fantasised about all the wonderful books I would be able to read to him. I thought I would start reading to him within weeks of him being born, and that a bedtime story would be our ritual from a very early age. It didn't really work out like that. Leo would rarely provide me with the audience my fledgling reading-out-loud talents craved - too busy looking at his teddies or staring out of the window or clamouring for a feed. I realised that I didn't want to read to my baby after all: I wanted to read with him. So I waited, and waited, and then slowly over the last 2 months Leo started to really notice his books. It started mainly with chewing them, but quickly progressed to page turning, then pointing, and now laughing and smiling while pulling the chosen one off the shelf. His attention span is now long enough for a decent bedtime story, and finally we are now reading together.