Think with me. A twilight blanket covers up each and every day with twinkling stars. Supper is consumed, over rumpus glee. The rhythm of the day becomes a distant drum beat. A slippery little body is bathed and pajama-ed. Maybe a chase ensues in defiance of sleep. At last caught, the child is drawn onto a parent's lap. A big book yawns across them both. Bedtime story. Snap. Picture.
Memories are made on the lap. The truest words, if ever there were, are read aloud, soft and real.
Pictures, luscious-glorious pictures, breathe even more meaning into the story. A picture book might just be a child's first glimpse of Fine Art. Bluest blues, reddest reds, ripe yellow, and toasty browns. Mental notes are taken. Unconscious. Of course. Words, luscious-glorious words bounce around inside the child, sometimes never to be forgotten. A picture book might just be a child's first round of poetry or prose. And that lap. Who could ever forget that lap. Time spent in direct contact. Slow words. As rich as slow food. It lulls a child (and parent) into a magical sleep. Unfettered by the doings of the day.
Wake and repeat.
This month and every month of eternity, please read a picture book to your young child. You may think, she or he is too old for a picture book. Or that there isn't enough... TiMe. But think with me, and think again.
Scoop 'em up and fling a big book across your lap. You'll never regret having that memory stuck in your head. I promise.
(Illustration print available on Etsy by Kim Parkhurst)
