What the Toddler is Digging

For over a week now, neither bedtime nor nap time commences until the two-year old gets her fix of Where the Wild Things Are.  “Why Things!” she says, drawing it from the giant pile of alternatives.  It’s been a revelation to read the book again, this time through a parent’s eyes (the book was published the year before I was born).  A masterpiece of simple story based in reality (kid sent to bed for back-talk, basically) that eases so naturally into fantasy and back.  Far from being upset, the tot on my lap is fascinated by the monsters, and loves to narrate Max’s state of mind based on his changing expressions.  During the wild rumpus, we bounce and rock the book so Max and the monsters can march and boogie and swing from the trees.

All those beetle brows, glowering eyes and fangy-fangs, and then she curls up with her duck and blankie and closes her eyes and drifts peacefully off, sailing back over a year, and in and out of weeks, and through a day, and into the night of her very own room

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