When my 4-year-old son Declan was just a few months old, we
had brunch with some family friends. Their son was whining for his stuffed
rabbit, which he had left in the car. "[Whatever stuffed rabbit's name
was] doesn't want to come out of the car," my friend explained to her son.
"He's tired and just wants to rest." The kid didn't buy it, and who
can blame him? He was a child, not an idiot. 
That's why I try not to lie to my kids. And that's why I
can't throw out any of the annoying books my kids love. Even if, like
"Sheep in a Shop," the far inferior sequel to "Sheep in a
Jeep," the meter is poor, the plot iffy, and the moral downright
questionable (the sheep trade their wool for some birthday presents). I can't
throw it away. I can't simply "misplace" it. Because I can't say,
"'Snuggle Puppy'? Haven't seen it," if I know it's buried under
leftover mac-n-cheese in the kitchen garbage can. I know I can't do this
because I've tried, and I suck at it.
My feeble attempts at lying to my kids, no matter how
trivial the matter, have failed miserably. When we went to the Renaissance
Faire last summer, I told my sons before we left the house that (plastic toy)
swords weren't allowed (as if!). Then when we got there and saw a sword on
every leather-clad hip in the shire, I felt like an idiot and spent the better
part of the day trying to talk my way out of it. But why? They're 4 and 3. I'm,
er, significantly older than that. "Because I'm the parent, that's
why," is trite because it's true. We're the grown-ups! We shouldn't have
to lie to get our way. That's toddler territory.
So when 3-year-old Ronan wants to read "Curious George
Goes to the Hospital" for the 11th time in a week and I simply cannot
stomach all 187 pages of it (or at least that's what it feels like), I don't
tell him that it's "gone missing." I simply tell him we've had enough
George for one week and suggest we read my favorite book, "The
Gruffalo." And if he starts to pitch a fit I simply offer the alternative:
no book at all. "The Gruffalo" always wins.
The truth is, I find a lot of children's books annoying.
Some of them just don't make a lot of sense to me. But that doesn't mean they
don't make a lot of sense to my kids. The first time I read "Goodnight
Moon," I thought to myself, "That's it? That's 'Goodnight Moon'? It
doesn't even rhyme!" But my kids loved it. So I read it to them, and
reread it to them, again and again and again, and they learned to recognize the
book and smile when they heard the first words.
Now my kids love to read, and the inanity of
"Snuggle Puppy" is balanced by the brilliance of John Lithgow's
"The Remarkable Farkle McBride." And that's okay with me. Because I
don't always want to read "Crime and Punishment." Sometimes I just
want a little "Flowers in the Attic."
The Other Side:
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