But the Big Thing Just Said, "Snort!"

My father has always claimed that when he read "Are You My Mother?" to my sister and I when we were little, we would cry. He read that particular book so well that he made us weep. Of course, no one is actually certain that this did or did not happen. Mind you, my father is the man who claimed to have invented Strawberry Shortcake and the Care Bears. The man who supposedly thought of "E.T." first and who personally knew the Patty O'something guy from The Chieftains in college. In other words, there is no way of knowing if my sister and I shed tears over his reading. But my mother, never quite as silly as my father, swears that we both loved that book and loved for him to read it to us. So, maybe it's true.

I was sitting in Borders the other day just killing time reading magazines so I wouldn't have to return to my grandparents' home and hear them tell me what a sheltered life I've lived (which jut goes to prove that neither of them know me that well even though I lived with them for a month). I retreated to the children’s section as I normally do to read. People are always crowded around the rest of the store, but no one really stays in the children's section for a sustained period of time. I'm sure that most people feel too old or mature to sit in a cushy, green chair resembling a book. But I am not one of those people. I am quite immature and, though I feel old, I have no shame in talking to a four year-old about the friend we share in Clifford (this happened once, but not the other day).

But I'm getting off topic, as usual. I had been sitting on that big green seat for about an hour perusing the latest copies of Premiere and Entertainment Weekly when I finished reading both. When I look up and notice "Are You My Mother?" staring at me from the bookshelf across from me. I get off my ass, grab a copy and quickly re-read it. Ahh, memories.

Truth be told, it's a really sad book. The bird falls out of the nest and then asks all these things if there his mother and none of them are. I now realize that maybe this is not the book I want my father to read to my children when they come and spend the weekend with their grandparents.

When I was younger, I loved to read. I like to read now (dissecting books has ruined my complete love of the pastime), but then I loved to read. A love which was due in no small part to my mother, a kindergarten teacher who bought more students books for Christmas presents with her own cash than any other person on the planet (or at least, any person living off a teacher's salary). My sister and I got books for every occasion and every non-occasion. I think that I engulfed every Nancy Drew book I could get my hands on in a one-month period. But that's really not that impressive, you probably did it in a week.

I remember those books so much better than I remember books I finished during my last year in college. I love them more. I can admit it. Though the more literary of you might think I'm crazy when I say that "The Phantom Tollbooth" is the best book I have ever read-- it is. And no, this is not just because I haven't read some book that you think is the greatest book ever written. It's because it just is.

Funny thing is, I can't ever remember my parents reading to me. I know they did. Not just because they said they did, but because everyone else says they did. I just wish I could remember that. I can remember my father singing his own version of a Danny Kaye song or "gimme a ticket for an aeroplane, ain't got time to take a fast train, lonely days are gone, I'm a going home 'cause my baby she's-a wrote me a letter." But can't remember any of the reading. Which is odd since I closely link my parents reading to me to my love of children's books and that love to my aspiration to publish one someday.

My sister tells me she remembers it-- which I highly doubt. My mother talks about my love of Spot the Dog books when I was three. And, well, you know what my dad talks about. My grandmother, who often likes to tell the same story about her other grandchildren over and over and over again, repeatedly gives my mother credit for how much those two like to read-- as my mother send them books all the time for occasions and non-occasions. But, that's my mother.

Since I ended with a list last time, I'll end with a list this time (mostly I'm ending it this way because I'm too lazy to write a real end for the post). My favorite children's book characters (listing the books would be a little too easy) in no particular order... well, minus the first one. If you're wondering how I can remember these guys, I do re-read the stories from time to time. And if you haven't read them, you should. They're just as good as those books people force you to read in college. Some are better.

1. Milo, The Phantom Tollbooth
2. Edmund, The Narnia Chronicles
3. Encyclopedia Brown, Encyclopedia Brown Mysteries
4. Peter, A Snowy Day
5. Piggins, Piggins Books
6. Claudia, From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler
7. Felix Clousseau, The Incredible Paintings of Felix Clousseau
8. Kristy, The Baby-Sitter's Club
9. Ms. Whatsit, A Wrinkle in Time
10. Fudge, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, etc.
11. Jack, The Stinky Cheeseman and Other Fairly Stupid Tales
12. Wolf, The True Story of the Three Little Pigs
13. Ramona, All of the books she was in
14. Skinnybones, Skinnybones, etc.
15. and 16. Danny and his father, Danny, Champion of the World
17. The White Witch, Narnia Chronicles
18. Humbug, The Phantom Tollbooth
19. Taran, The Prydain Chronicles
20. Max, Where the Wild Things Are
21. Baby Bird, Are You My Mother? (would the list be complete without it?)

These are the ones I thought of off the top. I'm missing some, but I remembered these.