October 22, 2000

One of the sublime pleasures of parenthood is reading books to your kids wrong.  You can make all sorts of editorial additions and they've got no idea.

Tom, for instance, likes this obnoxious wad of marketing called "Little CrittersTM Play With Me."  It's the story of a furry, ugly, buck-toothed, blue-eyelidded little freak who can't get any of his family to play with him, until his little sister volunteers.  It's point, I suppose, is that, gosh, your little sister can sure come in handy when you want someone to play with or can't get a date to the prom.  I can't stand the damn thing, but Tom loves it.

So if I'm going to read it every night, I'm going to read it my way.



"I asked Mommy to play with me, but she was busy baking a cake...  And taking long drinks out of this funny, square bottle.

"I asked Daddy to play with me, but he was busy painting the boat... Because material possessions are far more important to Daddy than spending time with his son.

"I asked Grandpa to play with me, but he was busy raking the leaves...  And he kept grabbing at his left arm and staggering around the backyard."



 



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