So I complied.
As my newborn son flailed around on his playmat, unwittingly hitting Mr Octopus and Miss Mirror-Thingamebob that hung from its arches with twitchy limbs he had yet to master, I regularly thrust at him all the baby cloth-books I’d collected in the months preceding his appearance in the world.
Did he appear interested? Er, yes. Possibly more in the sound of his mother’s voice. But I was certainly interested, and desired no distractions from worshipping at the altar of my firstborn.
So, like CDs on a rack, books slipped naturally into our daily routine of naps, meals, walks, bath, mat and tickle time. (more…)