Sitting on the library floor as my one-and-a-half-year-old granddaughter tipped another tub of books off a shelf, I started reminiscing. I hadn’t been in the library “Children’s Room” since mine were little. The tubs of books were a genius addition. Something a very young child could pull out and peruse, yet easy for me to put back. I spent my time, in the old days, chasing after my kids, picking up books my youngest pulled out, then struggling to match the Dewey Decimal System number to put them back in place before he pulled too many more off, down the aisle. Library Trip was not fun. But it was part of our week, every week.
I always let them pick ten. We read them every night before bed. We only needed seven, but ten gave us options. More to choose from, and we could read two if we had the time.
I don’t know the criteria for my granddaughter’s bedtime reading, her Mummy and Daddy are in charge. She and I just go to the library for fun, and for the playground behind the library, of course.
I, on the other hand, did have very strict criteria for my children’s bedtime books. The kids had to bring them to me, I would flip through the pages and give each a yes or a no. It’s funny, neither ever asked why I said yes to some and no to others; thankfully, since it was sort of a selfish reason.
As I flipped through potential books, I would look at how many words there were per page. Ten or less always got a yes. Sadly, I knew back then that there were only so many minutes, snuggled up with warm, cuddly children, that their tired mother could stay awake.
Love those memories.