Children's Books

Much to my surprise, and truthfully personal satisfaction, I've recently rediscovered the joys of reading. I say "rediscovered" because, as an English major, I read an extraordinary amount of forced literature -- forced meaning I had no say about it. Basically, read it or fail. And I think I speak for most when I say it's immensely difficult to pleasurably benefit from reading when a metaphorical gun by way of a letter grade is held to your head.

I say "rediscovered" also because there was a period when reading was synonymous with enthusiasm, imagination, suspense, comfort, actual participation, and thus fun. I'm talking about the era of children's books, a time defined by sitting Indian-style (or whatever the politically correct euphemism in today's world) before a book with knees supporting elbows, elbows supporting open hands, and open hands supporting chin, signifying unmitigated awe and wonderment at the words and vibrant colors before me.

These weren't simply tales of a cat in a hat or a big red dog. I'm talking pop-up books, books with puzzles and sounds, and books where you got to determine the fate of the main character -- you literally got to play God -- by simply choosing to continue on page 14 or 39. It kind of makes me wish that all books followed suit.

Think about how much better every piece of publication would be if it was solely comprised of pop-up pages. Open that math textbook up and, POW!, the quadratic formula in your face! Unfurl the Wall Street Journal and, look out!, here come the stock indices! Unfold the church bulletin and, sweet Moses!, the dedication of today's flowers all up in your business! It would just never get old.

If you can walk by a pop-up book today without feeling the slightest temptation to open it up, lock yourself up in a morgue because you have officially taken life way too seriously.