Margaret has begun to enjoy books. Not the way you and I enjoy them (I hope, anyway, because if you enjoy books the way she does, you need to start acting your age!), but in her own special way. She likes to pick them up and waggle them around and try to rip them up and then shove them in her mouth.
Which may actually may be a better form of literary criticism than the one I’ve spent the better part of my life learning to perfect.
Anyway, the other day she was really making headway on reading like a real person. She was holding the book, opening the pages, and (and I think this is the really important one) not eating it.
Of course, she had the actual book upside-down and backwards. Don’t tell her. I mean, don’t tell her now. There will come a point when it is perfectly acceptable for you to tell her that the book she’s trying to read is upside-down and backwards. Like when she’s 10 or so.
Anyway, she made progress. She got it sideways . . .
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