I love reading. But what I do not love, but want to love so badly, is reading baby books. I’m not talking about the classic “What to Expect” books or the Wonder Weeks, although I could tell you how I feel about those as well. Another blog, another time. But no, the one genre I just can’t get behind is books for babies. Books written for the newborn or infant in your life.
When I got pregnant, a dear friend gave us all the things we could ever possibly need to keep a baby alive and well-heeled, so our baby registry was page after page of books for our soon-to-be tiny human. I scoured the amazing lists posted on Book Riot, selected the most literary I could find, and dreamed of the day when I could read to my little daughter, and we would both fall in love with those books.
It didn’t quite work like that. Sure, she fell in love with the books, just like she fell in love with the empty water bottle or the cardboard box in the living room. But for me, these adorable books with their eight words total, slowly drove me mad. The Hounds of Baskerville reduced to less than ten words?! How is that remotely okay?
I get it. Babies have short attention spans and their ability to discuss plot points is sorely under-developed, but for all the other literary mamas out there, can’t we have a beautifully illustrated and lovingly crafted baby book that also has complete sentences?
After a few months of trying my best to read baby books to my baby, I gave up. Now, I read her what I am reading. She loves the snuggle time, and I love books with whole paragraphs. Win-win.