(no subject)
Made a trip to a best friend's this weekend to deliver her five boxes of books. My kids' books. One box of small board books, the kind they liked to hold even at six months old. And three boxes of little kid books. And about one of real chapter books.
To be honest I thought I'd feel more good about this than I do. More good. Better, I mean. I thought I'd be feeling great. Good deed, books delivered to a beloved friend -- what a great way to go!
It IS a good way to go. But still painful. Looking through them, seeing the new parents look through them. Remembering them. It's not as though I remember sitting reading a particular story on a particular day with a particular child. It's more the intense memory of the story itself, of loving it and being with someone who loved it too. George and Martha. Fox in Love. All of Richard Scarry. The Boynton board books. Skippy John Jones.
Frog and Toad.
Alexander and Horrible, Terrible, No Good Very Bad Day.
Spring is Here by Taro Gomi.
Those awful Clifford phonics books that my children loved for years.
My signed copy of The True Story of the Three Little Pigs by Jon Sciezka.
Goodbye, sweet childhood! My baby is ten. Ten and refusing to read. But that's another story. Goodbye, sweet books! We loved you dearly. Maybe too dearly. We kept a few tender faves but honestly, it's better to pass them on, isn't it? My own kids read very few of my childhood books even though I tenderly preserved them and dragged them from house to house (not that there were *many*; we didn't buy a lot). But the Carl Sandberg treasury? They have zero interest. So I kept telling myself, Let it go, let it go. There will be other books someday for the grandchildren. And if the apocalypse comes and there ARE no books and my greatest regret is passing my books onto a beloved friend -- well, then I probably deserve what I get.
Next stop: what to do with my five boxes of baby clothes? SIGH.
To be honest I thought I'd feel more good about this than I do. More good. Better, I mean. I thought I'd be feeling great. Good deed, books delivered to a beloved friend -- what a great way to go!
It IS a good way to go. But still painful. Looking through them, seeing the new parents look through them. Remembering them. It's not as though I remember sitting reading a particular story on a particular day with a particular child. It's more the intense memory of the story itself, of loving it and being with someone who loved it too. George and Martha. Fox in Love. All of Richard Scarry. The Boynton board books. Skippy John Jones.
Frog and Toad.
Alexander and Horrible, Terrible, No Good Very Bad Day.
Spring is Here by Taro Gomi.
Those awful Clifford phonics books that my children loved for years.
My signed copy of The True Story of the Three Little Pigs by Jon Sciezka.
Goodbye, sweet childhood! My baby is ten. Ten and refusing to read. But that's another story. Goodbye, sweet books! We loved you dearly. Maybe too dearly. We kept a few tender faves but honestly, it's better to pass them on, isn't it? My own kids read very few of my childhood books even though I tenderly preserved them and dragged them from house to house (not that there were *many*; we didn't buy a lot). But the Carl Sandberg treasury? They have zero interest. So I kept telling myself, Let it go, let it go. There will be other books someday for the grandchildren. And if the apocalypse comes and there ARE no books and my greatest regret is passing my books onto a beloved friend -- well, then I probably deserve what I get.
Next stop: what to do with my five boxes of baby clothes? SIGH.