Max got a book recently from his granny. It's a Sesame Street Sign Language ABC book. Max loves it. A lot. He brings it to me for constant reading and rereading. I am thrilled by his literary enthusiasm, but to be honest, this book does not have a lot going for it in the plot department, nor is it rich in character development, nor are the illustrations particularly vibrant or compelling. Around the three-hundred and fiftieth time I read it with Max, it got a little old for me. When we put all our books and things out on our new bookshelves, I have to admit that I shoved this book deep into the middle of a pile of similar-sized Max-books, thinking that I had found a guilt-free (well, almost) way to rid myself of Linda the Sesame Street Lady and her pesky alphabet signs.
Alas, I was thwarted. I put all the Max books on the bottom shelf, so that he could take them out whenever he wanted. For the first day or so, I congratulated myself on this plan, since Max immediately commenced pulling books off the shelf, eyeing each one briefly, and then tossing them to the four winds of Heaven. What seemed like random acts of pile-making, however, turned out to have a focused and single-minded goal all along.
Guess what reared its ugly head around day two of the book-tossing? And guess who immediately abandoned the book-tossing to carry the ugly-headed item over to Mama for perusing?
I succumbed to the inevitable. I have been outsmarted by my son once again, and his intelligence makes my conscience-stricken self worry that he knows that I hid the book, and fear to try it again. My only hope now is that I will someday grow numb enough with boredom that the book no longer upsets me. Pray for me.