Something that’s struck me in recent years is that when I read children’s books, I relate better to the parents than to the children (who, presumably, the audience is supposed to be more aligned with). The first time I remember being aware of this was when I read A Papa Like Everyone Else, by Sydney Taylor. In this book, the mama cares for her two little girls in a small Czechoslovakian village while the family waits for tickets to America to join their papa, who has been gone five years. I had so much empathy for this mama and was suddenly aware of the fact that she probably wasn’t the main character but to me she absolutely was.
The other night I had this feeling again, reading “The Land of Story Books” by Robert Louis Stevenson, a poem in A Poem for Every Night of the Year, edited by Allie Esiri. The poem is about a child’s imagination, but the opening lines most captivated me:
At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.
They sing? How sweet. What do they sing? Ah, that cozy fireplace, the warm low light of the lamp, the absorbing conversation.
You can take your imagination back to the nursery, kiddo – I’m staying here with your parents.
Have a warm and absorbing day!
(Photo credit: Iona Bogdan Giurgea/Pexels)
