Lately our bedtime reading has been taken to a whole new level. And by that I mean a deeper layer of hell. I have, historically, enjoyed bedtime reading with Sally. But she’s reached this point where her brain keeps growing at an annoyingly fast pace and this leads her to ask questions CONSTANTLY. And books, what with their educational properties (dagnabit!) exacerbate the problem. I give you the first page of Pinkalicious:
It was a rainy day, too wet to go outside.
“Why is it raining? Is it winter time there? Why is she wearing that dress?
Mommy said ‘let’s make cupcakes. What color do you want?’ ‘Pink,’ I said, ‘Pink, pink, pi-‘
“I would pick BLUE. Blue blue blue! Why doesn’t that one have a cherry on top yet? Is she going to eat them all? Why doesn’t her brother want one? Does she want to turn pink? I think she wants to turn pink because it’s her favorite. I would pick blue. Can I take cupcakes to school? Can we make blue ones?”
That’s the first page, people. Four lines. The whole thing is excruciating. I could read War and Peace in the amount of time it takes Sally to analyze whether Corduroy really lost his button or if it was a manufacturing flaw. And yet I can’t seem to make myself ignore her and just plow through the book. I don’t want to stunt her brain development and have her still doing this as we read the Twilight series together in 12 years. So I read, slowly, and answer questions, and then go bang my head against a bottle of Chardonnay.