One book before a nap (more correctly, these days, enforced alone time) and two books before bed. Plus whatever we happen to decide to read together throughout the span of any given day.
Lately, I read out loud a lot, is what I'm saying.
Inevitably I'll end up reading Squawk something I don't much enjoy. Some books require too much effort to render the text interesting, or expect too much acting of me; some are just over-exposed by Squawk's love for them and consequent insistence on reading and re-reading and re-re-reading them. Some are far too enslaved to the apparent necessity of rhyme in a kid's book: I am not at all a fan of a rigid and unvaried meter, and whenever Squawk wants a book of this ilk I can't help but edit them as I go, slicing out repetition to gain myself a touch more brevity and inflection.
Thankfully there are also books we both love, for the same and different reasons all at once — but my favourite of them all is, has to be, Where The Wild Things Are.
She won't let me read it often. I think it scares her a little. The page which mentions their yellow eyes and their fear always has her climbing into my lap for a comforting snuggle. But it always, always, always has her paying attention. It's all perfect: the drawings, the child's perspective, and the language. The language most of all. There are multiple worlds layered and called to life within this book, in barely half a handful of sentences.
The vines growing "until the walls became the world all around" — and the line about how Max "sailed off through night and day, and in and out of weeks, and almost over a year"… those two slay me every time.