It’s my daughter’s seventh birthday today. While the whole thing makes me feel ridiculously old, I’m also excited that she’s finally reached the right age for so many of my favourite books. Now, when she brings things home from the library, I want to read them, too!
Goodbye, Rainbow Magic. (And good riddance!) Hello Anne of Green Gables, Emily of New Moon, Prince Caspian, and The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. This morning, she unwrapped a copy of The Penderwicks, which I’ve been dying to read.
As we finished Anne of Green Gables at bedtime last night, I thought about the pleasure of rereading these titles, and I mused about reading them yet again in a couple more years with my son. Then I stopped. Because… do boys read Anne of Green Gables? I’m thinking probably not. And probably not Heidi, either, or The Secret Garden.
What the heck do they read? I came up with My Side of the Mountain. Now there was a good book. After that, I’m drawing a big, fat, boyish blank.
This could be trouble.