I am very fortunate that my father has been part of our caregiving team since Emma was born. Their bond is unbreakable, their love for each other incomparable and their daily activities…unorthodox.
I was an English major in college and I love books. Our house is littered with them. Nothing excites me more than knowing that Emma has inherited that love, so when my dad began reading her catalogues I was appalled. “Here Dad, read Goodnight Moon!” I urged as he flipped through the Frontgate catalogue. “Dad, look how much she loves Dr. Seuss books” I begged as they eagerly poured through the pages of Pottery Barn Kids.
In the never ending war with myself, I let this battle with my dad go unwaged. I was going to lose and I simply couldn’t compete with their enthusiasm for something so silly.
One weekend, as I pleaded with Emma to read “There’s a Wocket in My Pocket” in lieu of Crate and Barrel, I once again relented. And then something happened. As we turned the pages she started to name things, lots of things: blue chair, flowers, lots of grass, that’s a table, a crib, a window. The colors, the objects, how alive each page was in an attempt to sell you things.
Maybe I was sold? In the grand scheme of things, it certainly seems more practical for Emma to know about real objects instead of Wockets.
Maybe my dad was onto something. I will likely never admit that to him, and I will certainly never give up my books, but right next to them we now embrace a pile of “catalogue books” as Emma calls them.
Give it a try and let me know what you think.
