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.

Me

I adore reading, always have. I vividly remember (probably aged around 3) sitting on my dad's lap looking at the newspaper while he read it, and how frustrating it was to have to ask him to tell me what it said. I must have resolved to learn to read because quite soon after that, in my memory, I could, and by the time I went to school I was definitely a fluent reader.

I read voraciously and indiscriminately throughout school: second-hand Enid Blytons, the business section of The Times, my dad's 1940s original Wisden Almanacks, the ingredients on the cornflakes packet at breakfast, shampoo bottles and toothpaste tubes when sat on the loo... I read by day, and I read by night. I used to have my bedroom door open claiming I was scared of the dark but really I just wanted to allow the light in so I could read when I was supposed to be asleep.

I still read now. I am nowhere near as prolific as I was, and certainly not as prolific as one of my best university friends (henceforth known as Flossie) who seems to read about 100 books a year even with 3 kids under 10. But I read, and I take great pleasure in deciding what my next read will be. I read Booker shortlists and I read airport trash. I read novels and I read biographies. I read The Economist and Heat. The comfort reads I return to are usually by Ian Rankin and I felt very sad last night when I found out that J.G.Ballard had died.

So that's me. Now for Leo...

[N.B. I started this post on Saturday but finished it after I'd heard J.G.Ballard had died: I am many things, but a time-traveller I am not]