So much to do - so little time!With so much to squeeze in there'll be 2 posts today so here goes ...
This morning we have a guest post from the lovely Anna at www.dummymummy.co.uk. She describes her self as 'a first-time mum to my one-year-old daughter, living in Staffordshire, blogging to save my sanity.'
Hop on over and show her some love - and for you Twitter fans her name is @Annadummymummy.
Ready then? Are you sitting comfortably ? Goodo! Here we go ...
I love reading. I have always loved reading. Books are the essence of many of my childhood memories; begging my mum to let me read “Just one more chapter. Pleeeeeeeeaaaaaase”, before bedtime; the collection of Roger Hargreaves’ Mr Men books (embellished with wax crayon scribblings); a personalised story of Mother Goose and her friends from an aunty and uncle, which left me bewildered as to how the author knew my name and address and the names of my cousins; a book of nursery rhymes given to me by the head teacher at primary school as an acknowledgment of showing early promise in creative writing; my dad reading Enid Blyton’s Mallory Towers to my sister and me at bedtime, adding his own asides and putting on twenty different voices, causing me and my sister to be bent double with stitch from laughing so hard. Books have been a big part of my life from a very early age, and I wanted the same for my daughter.
The first book she had was a cloth book called Flora the Fairy. All bright pinks and purples, each soft page has different textures and patterns to keep little fingers busy. With this book, at barely four months old, The Baby learned to turn pages. At Christmas, more books were given as gifts, with one being singled out as a firm favourite. It is still a favourite seven months later. Boredom has not set in with this book; the mere sight of the cover of Where’s Spot? elicits excited squeals and frantic kicks, and each time the first page is turned to reveal that blue door behind which the bear is to be found, The Baby’s face is a picture of wonder and pleasure and sheer excitement.
I enrolled The Baby into the local library when she was about six months old, and every couple of weeks (except for when I was adjusting to being back at work, and a reminder dropped through the front door to say that the books were now several weeks overdue) we take a trip to discover new books, always searching for the one that can equal Spot, but never finding it. One that came very close (although I really do think that The Boyfriend and I loved this book considerably more than The Baby did, and it was very much for our own enjoyment that it was renewed. Twice) was Penguin by Polly Dunbar. If you don’t know this book, find it. It is beautifully illustrated, and so brilliant in its simplicity, and will, I promise, make you laugh out loud. Even if your kids don’t like it, you will.
The Baby’s books sit on their own shelf on our bookcase. I hope to be forced to buy her her own bookcase one day soon, as her collection of reading material outgrows that one shelf. I hope that as she gets older, the excitement and joy that she expresses when she hears the word ‘story’ will never leave. I hope that when she is my age, the books that we read to her now, the ones that she sits with on her chubby lap, that she chews the corners of, that she dextrously turns each page of with tiny little fingers, the ones that make her eyes sparkle and bring that smile to her face, I hope that they shape her memories of her childhood.