When we were last at the library, I accidentally came across author Arnold Lobel‘s books and had flashbacks to my own childhood! The stories are classic, sweet, and written with an innocence reminiscent of young children and age of magical thinking.
As I read Owl At Home to Emil one rainy afternoon (we’ve been reading a lot more since he gave up those beautiful wonderful dreamy naps), I remembered what it felt like to be read to when I was a little girl — this very same story, about Owl making teardrop tea; I remember thinking how silly the things were that Owl thought about to make himself sad: “mashed potatoes left on a plate… because no one wanted to eat them,” for instance. And all of the stories are like that, light and innocent and silly and sweet. Just perfect for little ones.
Actually, just perfect for anyone. As I was reading, Milo and Oliver listened from the other room, giggling and acting like the stories were too babyish for them… until they wandered over and ended up snuggled up next to us on the couch.
I can’t say that I blame them.