“Can you read this to me, Mommy?”
“Sure, honey.” (But inside, I am filled with dread and would derive more pleasure reading the instructions that come with Tampax.)
When I was a kid, I thought this book was the stuff of genius. It taps into some kind of primal foodie fantasy in the kiddie subconscious. As an adult, I still find the art to be amazing, but reading it feels so tedious now, for some reason.
What kid doesn’t love these? The art is so bold and colorful and likeable. But the writing? Good golly. If Roger Hargreaves was one of his characters, he might’ve been Mr. First Draft.
Actually, I don’t dislike this book, but Archie’s hatred for it is so immense, I had to include it on the list. He can’t really explain why he detests it so much. It just makes him very angry. He says the exact same thing about yoga.
The first Madeline book is darling. Why does this one suck so much?
I was given this book twice, by two of my closest friends. It opens with a woman who has just given birth to her baby girl. The book takes us through the mother’s visions of her daughter’s future: her infancy, the ups and downs of childhood, adolescence, adulthood. She imagines her daughter growing up, moving out of the house, finding her own way in the world, becoming a mother herself. And she knows that someday her daughter will grow old too, and that she will remember her mother. To both of my sweet friends who gave this to me to commemorate my having my daughter I say, WHAT THE HELL MAN, ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME WITH SADNESS AND CRYING? WHY YOU JACK ME UP LIKE THAT? LOOK AT MY EYES, THEY ARE SWOLLEN FROM BAWLING. I THOUGHT YOU WERE MY FRIEND, WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO HURT ME?