Books are deliciously yummy

My love affair with books started when I was a wee one just like baby girl. Bedtime stories, nursery rhymes, picture books, non-fiction books about plants, coloring books (still counts as a book), graphic novels, I loved them all.

I used to read in the loo, while crossing the street, during dinner, and my absolute favorite, snuggling under the sheets with a torchlight.

I read novels late into the night and woke up massively hungover the next day. Once, I got thrown out of class because I was secretly reading a book sandwiched in between my Chemistry texts. I managed to smuggle the book out with me and I sat outside curled up over Roald Dahl’s Tales of the Unexpected, thrilled at the chance to skip a lesson on the pain-in-my-ass Periodic Table.

It was like an addiction I couldn’t stop. They made me laugh. Sometimes, they made me cry. They made my hold my breath in anticipation and my heart skip a beat. They made my hair stand on end and my skin turn all cold and clammy. They took me to magical faraway places filled with fairies and unicorns. They taught me crazy stuff like how to skin a pig and make leprechauns disappear. Most of all, they showed me love and hope and all the good things in the world.

My philosophy as a parent is to let them discover what they like in life all on their own. But when it comes to books, I’m taking no chances. I need them to fall in love with books like I did. I want to be able to tell them to “quit reading and GO TO BED“, certain that they’ll wait till the echo of my footsteps fade down the hallway before they huddle under the sheets and wander off to Hogwarts or the Faraway Tree or the land inside the Cupboard yet again.

Read, my little bookworm babies, READ!