Perhaps you are one of those people—one of those people I hear about but do not know—who has a baby or who cares for a baby who sleeps for hours every afternoon, who loves to gaze out of the window propped up by cushions, or who crawls after you into the kitchen to play with a drawer full of pots and pans while you start the dinner. I was not.
My babies needed a lot from me. Whenever I was with them, my touch, my voice, my face was constantly in demand. They needed lots of holding and conversation, lots of cuddling and songs. And I was happy to provide it, because I found that I needed it as much as they did—or almost as much, anyway. For hours and hours, I was quite happy to while away the day in this intimate fashion, just the two of us chatting, observing the world as it unfolded around us. But each afternoon around two, an abyss opened up before me, and I was suddenly bereft of conversational gambits. I forgot every song, every finger play, every knee rhyme I had ever learned—and there the baby sat on my lap, looking first with expectancy and then with anxiety into my face, waiting for the sound of my voice to resume. Books eased this awful part of the afternoon, when I was too tired, too deprived of the kind of intellectual stimulation I was familiar with before having children, to offer up anymore.
I reached for books unthinkingly. They were a central part of my life—of my work life, of my inner life—and I reached for them without considering. In bookstores, I found the classic books for babies: books of nursery rhymes; word books, with an isolated object pictured on the page, and its name next to it; noisy books, full of animals and machines and the sounds that they make; and a handful of stories, real stories to read over and over.
More than entertaining the baby when I had nothing left, I discovered that these books did something for me as well. At first, I was stymied by them. After all, how are you supposed to read a book composed of isolated words—only ten or twelve of them? Where was the plot? The conflict? But as I watched the baby on my knee I saw these books anew. The baby reached for favorite images, patted them with an open palm, looked at me to provide commentary. Slowly, the word books we read liberated my imagination.
After years upon years of formal schooling, I had long since lost the confidence and the ability to invent my own stories. My own eyes were turned intently upon the texts of others I supposed greater and more knowledgeable than myself. But the babies didn’t know that. They knew only my soft lap, the arms that held them securely, the warm breath on their cheeks, and the hair that tickled their necks as I lent forward to look over their shoulders at pages that featured a single image and its accompanying word, as I murmured sounds into their ears. Pictures that caught their attention became words we lingered over, tasting their flavor, turning their syllables over and over in our mouths. I felt as I were learning the language all over again, experiencing the tiny delicacy of “kitten,” the hugeness of “cow,” the abruptness evoked by “horse.” From these books, we moved on to read the noisy books, which generally had more pictures on each page—and suddenly I was making observations, drawing comparisons, telling stories—Look! In the corner, do you see? Where’s that cat going? Is it following the bird? It was only a short step to the stories we loved, stories of no more than ten or twelve sentences that held us enthralled. Nursery rhymes we saved for the beginning or the ending of reading times, easing our way into or out of stories with the rhythmic bridge they built.
And before I knew it, the terrible part of the afternoon would be over, and we were ready to move on to the deliberate examination of toys, the afternoon snack, the diaper change, the stroll outside, the trip downstairs to change the laundry, the return to the kitchen to assemble the ingredients for dinner, the rest of our day.
So if you have a baby that needs you a lot, then maybe you—like me—need books to read together.
But how to do it? Being with a baby can make you awfully self-conscious at first. It’s hard being always responsible for keeping the conversation going. But when reading aloud, you are released from this obligation. You are performing someone else’s words and ideas, absorbing them yourself at the same time. And oftentimes, therefore, you are rediscovering what is engaging for you. So when reading with a baby, respond naturally, if slowly, to the book that you hold. Linger over the sections that interest you. Point out, with your words and with your gestures, those things that capture your imagination. Explain what you don’t like, and why. As long as you speak with expression, you’ll find that you have a most attentive and appreciative audience.
As for the choice of book, well, babies tend to like books about babies. Books that are about themselves, about their bodies, the patterns of their days, their families and friends—in short, all that is familiar, is a delight to them. Animals, too, are often pleasing. Best of all are books that are themselves familiar, so don’t hesitate to read the same ones over and over and over.
Is the baby always reaching for the book? Provide another that’s just for holding. And don’t worry if you need to surrender the book you’re reading in midstream. The seamless interpenetration of the stories will not disturb the baby, and may indeed spark new trains of thought for you, as you break off one text and pick up another. Which is a good reminder that in general, you don’t need to read the text faithfully word for word. The time will come when the child demands this, but with babies, just watch them. Still interested in the page? Keep talking. Looking a bit bored? Turn the page, or put the book down.
By age one or so, most babies will want to hold their own books, and to explore them physically, turning pages, opening flaps, peering through cutouts. Little books that they can hold are essential for this exploration to occur. If you can offer a few such books, joint reading sessions of larger books that only you can hold will be less frustrating for both of you.
By age two, children are absorbed by more detailed illustrations than ever before. They are also often more demanding of routine, and you will find yourself needing to read a book in exactly the same way each time, without deviating from the text, or even from your usual tone of voice. The most important thing at each stage is that you have fun—both of you.