When I was a young warthog little girl my mom was always reading, which made her a terrible, neglectful mother because she was too busy reading to feed or clothe us instilled in me a lifelong love of books. (How many times can I use that strikeout deal before you get annoyed? A million, right?) To this day I am blown away that the library is a real thing. I can take out as many books as I want? For free? PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Use your library. A lot a lot a lot. And if you care as deeply as I do, you will single-handedly fund your local branch with your late fees.

One of the biggest crimes I could commit as a child was losing my mom's page in a book. She may or may not deny this but I can definitely recall at least six[hundred] times when I pulled a bookmark out or unfolded a dog ear or closed a book left open on the couch/table/stove (neglectful, remember? honestly, mommy dearest) and then had to endure her wrath. I think her reaction was so severe that I had to block it out of my memory. Picture Hiroshima. That's probably pretty close. Anyway, in this way she taught me to be controlling and neurotic that literacy is very important.(Okay I'm over strikeout now. For real! Not like when I say that about cutting my own bangs.) I kept messing with her books because unlike mine, there were no pictures. Before I knew how to read I just liked to look at the pages and try to drag my finger down the page through the spaces in between the words. (I still do this. Every time I try to read Anna Karenina.)

My mom still has some of the books that survived what I loosely refer to as my "growing up." They live on a shelf in between Stephen King and some other (TASTEFUL! ARTY!) adult literature. Here are some highlights (guess who woke up worried about an assignment that wasn't real and couldn't get back to sleep for a little while) (and PS I don't remember who wrote any of these books or drew the pictures so if it turns out to be you, feel free to sternly reprimand me via email and I promise I will feel really bad for not crediting you):

"Timmy Green's Blue Lake." In this book, Timmy Green finds a tarp in his garbage and pretends it's a lake. Then his friend/NEMESIS Sherry Lou comes to his house and slices it up with her ice skates. Throughout the rest of the book, Sherry Lou continues to thwart every vision Timmy has for his blue garbage tarp. She never shows the slightest bit of remorse, and Timmy remains hopeful and continues to boldly explore the tarp frontier. There's also a dog. Something for everybody.

"Something Something Tigers Something" This was actually my mom's childhood book, and I wasn't supposed to read it or chew on it or color on it or anything else that's fun to do with books. Actually I still might not be allowed to touch it. So look real quick at the tigers reading Tarot with Gypsies, and don't tell my mom.

"What is God?" My parents, sensing the potential existentialist in their daughter, got me this book to explain different ideas about God. Or maybe they got it for my brother because he was cute. I really don't know. This is actually an awesome book. It was written by God.* Here is my favorite favorite part:

I do not apologize for the quality of that or any of the other pictures. If you don't like it then you can buy me a new camera. (If you DO like it, you can buy me a new camera too. Or maybe you two can get together and throw in for a really fancy one? However you want to do it is fine.)

"The Donkey's Dream." Another God book, kind of. It's about a donkey who dreams about the nativity? Or something? I just remember staring at this page for really, really extended periods of time, pondering the symbolism of the donkey's dreams thinking it would be neat if all roses glowed. Glew? Glowed. Thanks, spell check. 

This next book was also my mom's. I feel like I should explain that my parents went the talking-about-sex-at-the-dinner-table-my-whole-entire-life route, not the hand-your-kid-a-book route. I'm grateful I got to grow up in an extremely open environment, mostly because it has made me a pretty entertaining dinner date. Anyway in this book, "How Babies Are Made," there are pictures of all different sorts of animals making babies. They show chickens and dogs and platypus. Human beings are the grand finale, but we'll get to that. First, this is how chicken babies get made:

Should I have added a disclaimer about graphic-ness? Or something? Too late now. In any case I have just prevented sixteen teen chicken pregnancies so it was worth it to shock and alienate you. The greater good, folks. Next I will show you how human babies are made. If the last picture was too much for your tender virgin eyes, then this next one will definitely be upsetting so you might want to concentrate on pure thoughts and scroll past it real quick. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I feel like I've said all there needs to be said about this book. This last book, "The King," was one of my favorites, and you will see why I wasn't allowed to touch my mom's old books so much.

 

You see? I've always liked to take notes in the margins. I had this book before I could read, but when I read it last night I realized why I must have liked it so much. The King loves a regular-looking awesome girl with brown hair and "wants her to be his queen,", but the mean green ladies want him to marry the pretty boring princess with yellow hair. So he gives up his crown so he can play with the brown-haired girl forever. Le sigh!







*It was not written by God. God had somebody else write it for him.