Good parents read their kid a book a night. Great parents forgo that for days at a time and then try to make it up to Bug by moving through five books in one night.
She seems to absorb the books the way she absorbs words: in sudden bursts of recognition. Every once in a while when I tell her we're fattening her up to sell her to folks at the food co-op, she seems to well up with tears in response.
In the same way, she will suddenly focus on one page or one book.
"Goodnight Moon, please."
"We just read that one last week, Bug."
"Good. Night. Mooooooon!"
"How about Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus."
"How about Don't Let Parents Pretend Mo Willems Books Are Written For Kids."
"Infants aren't generally into sarcastic detachment, Dad. Or cutesy wootsy crap. God, that stuff sucks rocks through a hose. We like primary colors and repetition."
"This has colors!"
"This has bleached freaking pastels. I look at this book and I feel like I'm in the courtyard of some run down tropical hotel."
"You want understated, go buy another John Prine album. I want red and blue and yellow and I want a book that forces you to say Goodbye to inanimate objects again and again. That is what I want."
"Then explain why you like Shel Silverstein when he works only in black and white."
"Shel Silverstein needs to be justified to you? Really? I'll explain Shel when you explain why in the hell anyone would read as many books about genocide as you do."
"Sigh." Grabs book. "'In the great green room ...'"
"This is why Miss Gossip is going to run FanHouse better than you. She's better organized and she takes no crap."
"Amen. 'There was a telephone ... "
(Damn Wifus would like everyone to know that she reads to the kid every day.)