After shopping for a book for my friends' baby, I have been reminded (again) of my love for children's books. It is so much more enticing than the shallow-themed, emotionally-driven Young Adult lit on which I, as a secondary English teacher, need to be informed. Don't get me wrong. There are a few gems out there (John Greene, Louise Rennison, Walter Dean Myers can put out some good ones that I can handle reading); however, it is those amazing picture books that sparked my imagination as a kid and let me experience things I have never experienced before. Maybe it's just my nostalgia that makes these books more endearing than, say, Brave New World or The Scarlett Letter (which is still one of my faves). Or maybe it's just that children's books don't yet touch upon the bleakness that can be found in real, adult life. I regret that I tend to take pride in my love for the dark, depressing, or even banal. However, nothing beats the end of The Napping House, when everyone is playing in the sunny, front yard. Or in Stellaluna, when the little bat is reunited with his family. Or when the little girl in The Talking Eggs has a struck of good luck. I do love these books!
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