"Oh Help, Oh No! It’s A Toddler Claiming He No Longer Likes The Gruffalo!"
In which I almost forgot World Book Day
Welcome to Baby Brain, a space where I - Charlotte, hi! - write about my life as a mother of three small children - Poppet (m, 4 years), Pickle (m, 2 years) and Peach (f, 5 months.) Those are not their real names. These are real stories from our days.
My favourite place as a child was the local library.
I grew up in a traumatic environment, raised by two people in a toxic relationship with first each other, and then with other people. I don't know if I was miserable or if I just accepted it, but I do recall relating to one Matilda Wormwood, a voracious reader like myself brought up in an unhealthy home. Matilda had a power that brought her through to the other side - telekinesis. My own power was, I would later realise, repression.
Repression, and the reading ability of someone much older than I actually was. Repression, and a library card.
My first visit to the local library was not a memorable one - I know that because I don’t remember it - but many of the visits after are still locked in my mind. I would be in town with one or other parent, and I would excuse myself to return some books, or pick up some new ones, or both. I would take my time choosing, reading blurb after blurb and adding book after book to a pile I would then take home and devour one after another, sat in bed for days at a time as though the world I actually lived in couldn’t possibly be as interesting as the ones others had created in their heads.
It was through reading that I explored the world, learned about the kind of love that didn’t involve threats and tears and plates thrown at walls. It was an escape and a gift and a mind expanding, soul feeding activity all of my own.
It was a lifeline. It was a way out. It was, it felt at times, all I had.
“So Matilda’s strong young mind continued to grow, nurtured by the voices of all those authors who had sent their books out into the world like ships on the sea. These books gave Matilda a hopeful and comforting message: You are not alone.” - Matilda, Roald Dahl
See also: Matilda, by Harry Styles
Imagine my surprise when, all grown up and so empowered by books, I found myself forgetting World Book Day.
Again.
The realisation hit on Tuesday morning. Sat in the library’s free ‘Rhyme Time’ class with Peach on my lap, I gazed around absentmindedly, waiting for the singing to begin. “There’s something I’m forgetting,” I thought, as a child in Peter Rabbit fancy dress wandered by, accompanied by Paddington Bear. “It’s World Book Day on Thursday!” the ladies running the group trilled. Not registering what was right in front of me - the circulation of blood to my brain clearly being cut off by the pre-pregnancy jeans I’d decided to squeeze into - “what have I forgotten?” I wondered.
This wasn’t my first clue. That was the e-mail from the school. It wasn’t my second, either. In fact, two days prior, my mother in law had told me a story specifically about my husband’s cousin’s daughter’s outfit for the big day. “She was going to go as Hermione Granger,” she said, in a tale that had started via a compliment about the Victoria Sponge she’d lovingly prepared, “but everyone was going as Hermione Granger, so now she’s Veruca Salt”
“That’s Harry Potter too, isn’t it?” said my FIL
“Charlie and The Chocolate Factory,” my MIL replied, before going on to tell us about a search for stuffed squirrels in antique shops that had me envisioning taxidermied monstrosities sewn into the skirts of my husband’s cousin’s daughter’s clothes (which my husband’s cousin’s daughter would never allow, for she is fashion personified at just 7 years of age) and how, during that search, she’d happened upon the new stand that inspired the cake before us. The idea of the squirrels stuck in my mind, wandering to memories of Crap Taxidermy, a social account filled with pictures of, well, crap taxidermy
“What was the main takeaway from this conversation?” I look back and think now. “And why do I still think it was the squirrels?”
Halfway through Dingle Dangle Scarecrow, the realisation hit. I googled the date to be sure and was, for another year, horrified to find I had forgotten to source outfits for my children to wear in a show for the world that says “hey! My parents read to me!” For the next hour, I was mum guilt personified, yo-yoing between “why do we always need to dress them up for all of these random events” and “everything depends on finding an outfit that will turn up on time, EVERYTHING.”
Next day delivery and two sets of James and the Giant Peach pyjamas later, the earth was back on its axis, my son(shine)’s none the wiser that their mother had almost embarrassed them in front of all of their friends. Poppet and Pickle were over the moon when I theatrically presented them with their wares. “Ah WUV it!” Pickle cried. “These are the best pyjamas EVER!” Poppet cried louder. And then he started to actually cry, complaining of a sore throat, and retiring early to bed, sans new bedtime outfit. Regrouping after a mild disappointment at the thought that he may not make it into class to show off his panic bought PJs, I took off my selfish hat and planned us a nice little day on the sofa, just in case. He would still be in his new pyjamas, I reasoned with the voices in my head, and we would still observe Book Day. Snuggled up, we would read The Lion The Witch And The Wardrobe to completion, having just discovered its hiding spot under the sofa, after a disastrously timed lost property moment left us unsure what would happen now that Edmund had left his siblings for dead in order to eat Turkish Delight with the White Witch - a move that we agreed was foolish, Poppet and I, for we are wiser than Edmund the traitor(ous bastard), and probably more fun to have at dinner parties.
Poppet went to school in the end. Which is for the best, since my throat hurts now too.
An outfit from years gone by, originally captioned:
Oh help, oh no! It’s a toddler claiming he no longer likes The Gruffalo!
It’s a bloody minefield, all this.
To pivot into serious matters, if you will, the act of children reading for pleasure is in danger of extinction. Not only is the judgment of adults causing harm (some of us are apparently calling out little ones for their literary choices (7) ) but for those that do want to read, access to books is getting harder. Eight hundred libraries have permanently shut their doors in the UK since 2010, according to a 2019 article - the date of which leaves us to assume that many more still are now lost. Those that are still open have fallen prey to reduced hours and budget cuts, with spending on libraries down by 47.9% since 2010. (2) In 2022, it was reported that almost one in five children in England between the ages of 5 and 8 don’t have books at home (3), with those from a poorer socioeconomic background most likely to fall into this group. And, it was reported in 2020, less than half of 0-2 year olds are being read to daily, (4) missing an important early introduction to books that could ignite a lifelong passion for stories.
Why does it matter? “There can be few things as powerful as regularly reading to a young child. It has astonishing benefits for children: comfort and reassurance, confidence and security, relaxation, happiness and fun. Giving a child time and full attention when reading them a story tells them they matter. It builds self-esteem, vocabulary, feeds imagination and even improves their sleeping patterns.” (4) “Books also help children build empathy and learn how to handle challenging feelings. Even a few minutes of reading together gives you and your child a chance to slow down and connect with each other. And the sensory experience of sitting with you and hearing your voice also engages their brain in a way that makes learning easier.” (5) “Evidence suggests that children who read for enjoyment every day not only perform better in reading tests than those who don’t, but also develop a broader vocabulary, increased general knowledge and a better understanding of other cultures. In fact, reading for pleasure is more likely to determine whether a child does well at school than their social or economic background.” (6)
Reading is excellent for mental health, and offers a safe escape into a land far from our own. Or, to put it another way, into a world of pure imagination (I knew I could slip another Roald Dahl reference in here somewhere - thank you, Willy Wonka, you have never let me down)
Two more book related anecdotes:
When I left London to live in the North with my then boyfriend, now husband, I was lonely. Unsure what to do to better settle in my new home, I started a book club. A monthly discussion in the attic of a pub, ‘The Wine & Banter Book Club’ was a runaway success in that more than three people turned up each month, it gave me a solid excuse to regularly eat chips and gravy, and I made friends with a handful of people, 2 of which we still consider close friends. Does one of the books we read (pictured) still haunt me? Absolutely it does. But did my lifelong love of books serve me, once again, in improving my lot in life? Absolutely it did. If you don’t include Nix related nightmares, that is, which I do not.
&
This afternoon, I read the Little People Big Dreams ‘Dolly Parton’ book to the kids. It’s International Women’s Day, and the day after World Book Day, so Dolly felt like a good choice. After I’d finished explaining to them about Dolly’s programme to get books out to children that need them, I asked if they’d like to hear one of her songs. “No,” said Poppet, as Pickle ignored me entirely. “Just one,” I said to my eye rolling oldest child, turning up the speaker to blast out 9 to 5, and looking up to see him busting a move on the play mat just moments later.
Googling the woman herself for details of her reading programme (which you can find here) I stumbled upon a fun fact: In 1973, a fan left a baby on Dolly’s doorstep, with a note asking her to raise her. The little girl was called Jolene. IMAGINE!
I could wax lyrical about this topic all day long, and feel I already have to an extent, but as it’s now 11pm and I’m tired, I shall end on a plea: if you’re in the market for a new baby gift, or a child’s birthday present, consider a book. If you’re looking for a way to pass the time with a little one, consider the library. You’ll never regret either choice.
Until next time 📚