J was reading a book on smoking because she had vowed never to smoke
and she wanted to learn more about it. The big words tired her,
though, so she put the book aside. It seemed like a good time to bring
out the books I bought last week, just in case she’d find one of them
entertaining. Mr. Popper’s Penguins drew a smile, Lemony Snicket was a
clear no-go (she didn’t like the books), and Shel Silverstein…

Well, I was *planning* to show her the book, but as is usually the
case with Shel Silverstein and similar poets, I got sucked into it
myself. I flipped open to a random page and started reading a poem out
loud. And naturally I *had* to read the next one, and the next one,
and then I looked up and J was peering over my shoulder, and then she
was saying the words along with me, and then I had to sit half off my
chair in order to let her sit with me and read, and then she insisted
on reading all the short poems, and then W got into the act as well,
and then J’s foot fell asleep and she hopped to the couch in the
living room, and then we all curled up on the couch and read these
hilariously silly poems (polar bear in the Frigidaire!) until W
declared that it was time for J to go to bed. J nodded, but kept
silently reading the book (which by now had ended up on her lap). I
couldn’t help but grin.

I love it when enthusiasm is infectious.

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