Finn migrated from his crib into his big boy bed when he was two years old. That means that each night for the past 730 nights either Laura or I has laid next to him, read him bedtime stories, sung lullabys, said prayers, and tucked him in.
Over the past couple of years Finn has accumulated a voluminous library of children’s books. There are books about hungry caterpillars, wild things, engines that could, very bad days, little red hens, and so many more. And while they’ve all been fun to read, the fun wears off after the twentieth, or thirtieth, or four hundredth reading.
A few days ago I asked Finn if he was ready to read a chapter book instead of a kids book at bedtime. I had just the book in mind. I told him there wouldn’t be pretty pictures, but that instead there would be fascinating stories about animals, and hunting, and holidays. Finn asked if there would be stories about wolves, and when I read the back cover to him, the very first word was met with delight: “Wolves.”
He was in.
It took us about two weeks to read Little House in the Big Woods. He loved every word. So did I. With the Big Woods behind us, we’ve moved on to Farmer Boy as our nightly reading ritual. And while there are still stories about wild things and little red hens, the cool part now is that they become dinner. And that’s a lot more fun to read about for both of us.
Now to work on Gray…