As I stood in my daughter’s room, my heart sank at her proclamation. “These all have to go,” she said, gesturing toward the towering pile of picture books on the floor. My eyes wandered to her bookcase, where three of the four shelves lay barren. “I’m making space for my novels,” she added, her excitement palpable.
This heap, a mere fraction of our once-vast collection, comprised our cherished favorites—the beloved titles that had survived our regular purges that sent lesser books to donation bins. These were the last remnants of our picture book days, held captive in my youngest daughter’s room. But now, even they were being cast aside. “Room on the Broom,” “Days with Frog and Toad,” and “The Paper Bag Princess” were being replaced by the Hunger Games trilogy and “A Court of Thorns and Roses.”
I stared at the pile, contemplating their fate. The thought of discarding them felt unbearable. Would it be strange to keep them in my own room? This marked the official end of the picture book era in our household, and I was taken aback by the wave of sadness that washed over me. Generally, I’m adept at parting with outgrown clothes or toys without being weighed down by nostalgia. I cherish the memories of those early years, but I wouldn’t trade my children’s independence for anything. I relish our shared experiences as they grow, exploring the world together rather than merely guiding them through it. I find joy in learning TikTok dances from them instead of leading sing-alongs of “Wheels on the Bus.”
Yet, witnessing those discarded books stirred something deep within me. They held an enchanting world filled with fairies, wizards, and whimsical creatures. They depicted heartwarming snapshots of everyday life, delivering the oddities of Dr. Seuss and Mo Willems that resonate so perfectly with young minds. Julia Donaldson’s rhythmic storytelling propelled our voices in delightful harmony. Each book in that pile carried a special charm that had kept it in frequent rotation for years, like “The Pocket Dogs,” “Harry’s Home,” and “Plum Tree Cottage.”
My reluctance to part with them stemmed from more than their artistic merit. Once upon a time, during those exhausting early years, picture books were my lifeline. While we often hear about the benefits of parents reading to their children, we seldom acknowledge how therapeutic it is for parents.
A mouse went strolling through the deep dark wood / He saw a nut, and the nut was good. (“The Gruffalo,” by Julia Donaldson) These stories were my form of therapy. Therapeutic practices often promote visualization to achieve a calm state, but picture books are even better. Reading aloud with my children was akin to stepping into a miniature universe. When we opened “The Gruffalo,” we were enveloped in the mouse’s serene wood, allowing the chaos of our real world—filled with toys, spilled snacks, and unwashed dishes—to fade into oblivion.
In those moments, we discovered mindfulness together. Book illustrators expertly packed details into their pages, ensuring that every reading revealed something new. Each time we opened “Winnie the Witch,” we marveled at the tiny lizard on the wall or the peculiar black toilet, reminding us to slow down and appreciate the little things.
And then I dreamed I was sleeping on billowy billows / Of soft-silk and satin marshmallow-stuffed pillows. (“I Had Trouble in Getting to Solla Sollew,” Dr. Seuss) Those moments spent snuggled up with books were my brief escapes, akin to a midday spa retreat. The kids would nestle against me, their boundless energy momentarily paused. The words flowed over their heads like a warm embrace, and I always ensured a stack of books was within reach to prolong those cozy moments.
You’re not awake / it’s six o’clock. You hear a ring, you hear knock-knock. (“The Birthday Monsters,” by Sandra Boynton) Picture books also taught me to go easy on myself. The beauty of these stories for a weary parent is that the authors have already done the hard work. On days when I was a zombie after sleepless nights, I lacked the creativity for imaginative play. But reading aloud provided a direct line from my eyes to my mouth, even when I was mentally checked out.
People often complimented me for reading to my kids so much. But here’s my truth: if all that reading had truly been for their benefit, like getting them to eat vegetables or practice the violin, I wouldn’t have done it nearly as much. I simply didn’t possess that level of good-parent energy. During that time, I was reading for me.
And so, I’ve decided to hold on to our treasured collection, like a stash of sanity, in case I’m ever called upon to care for little ones again.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, the author grapples with the bittersweet moment of her children outgrowing their beloved picture books. While feeling a sense of loss, she acknowledges the comfort and joy these stories brought during the hectic early years of motherhood. As her daughter makes space for new adventures in reading, the author cherishes her memories of shared literary experiences and the therapeutic nature of reading aloud.