Like many of you, I love to read. Love. to. read. I majored in English so I could read for fun during college. I like to hang out in the libary. If I had to choose between reading and having sex, I'd probably choose reading half the time. (No offense to Husband. It's me. Not you.) I know that most, if not all, of you can relate to this love of literature because bloggers are writers and writers are book lovers.
So, given my love of reading, I was not surprised to see Little Guy sprouting his own love for the written word at a fairly young age. As soon as he could lift his little head off the ground, I would find him half-crawling, half-dragging himself across the floor to open a book and turn the pages.
In fact, he was so
fond of books that he would even try to ingest them from time to time.
But as time wore on, I noticed that Little Guy was slowly giving up his interest in
I became worried. Would he not be the lover of literature that I assumed he would be? My future plans for tucking Little Guy into bed each night after reading him a chapter from The Hobbit
or The Chronicles of Narnia
suddenly appeared to be in jeapordy.
Time passed. His first birthday came and went and no sign of any literary interest. How could this be happening? I really became concerned. But it appeared that nothing I did made any difference.
And then it happened. One day, almost overnight, he went from no interest in reading whatsover to becoming completely and totally obessed.
I like to call it Book Obsessed Toddler Lunaticitis.
Apparently, any toddler can catch it. At any time. And he had it. Bad.
All of a sudden, all he wanted to do was read books. His thirst was unquenchable. And if I didn't read to him immediately, there would be consequences. Oh, would there be consequences!
It would go down the same way every time.
First, the approach (innocent enough). He would bring me a book. His favorite book. The book we had read 25 times that same day.
Trying not to show my terror, I would realize I was trapped. Again. And if I tried to do anything but head directly for the couch to read that book, he would follow me everywhere, book in hand, red-faced and screaming, as if I had abandoned him, forsaken him - as if, if I didn't read him that book RIGHT THAT VERY SECOND AND NOT A SECOND LATER he would die right there on the spot.
Oh, the horror.
In desperation, he would fling himself down upon his book, sobs racking his wee little body.
It was an awful sight to behold. I have nightmares about it to this very day.
Soon, I found myself praying every night for him to stop. Just for the love all things good and pure, STOP with the books already. I was getting to my wits end. I would fantasize about digging a great big hole in the backyard and burying all the books back there. These were horrible, horrible thoughts that I couldn't believe I was thinking. And yet I was. It was getting that bad.
And then, as quickly as it started, it stopped.
Only about three months after book demons took over my son, they left him. And as much as I love reading, I am so friggin relieved that he's been exorcized from this affliction that I'm practically throwing myself a celebration party.
Now, like I said, I love books as much as the next blogger. But if my son ever, EVER goes through a phase like this again, I think I'll kill myself.