On Reading

There is reading and then there is reading.

There is reading on the train to pass the time, there is reading for exams in school, there is on-the-john reading and then there is the kind of reading that you just must do, be it under the covers on a rainy day or stealthily hidden behind your thick Physics text book in class for fear of being reprimanded. It is the reading that you look forward to when Saturday afternoon comes round and the baby is napping (at last). And it is the kind of reading you choose over going out for a movie or a night on the town.

I am glad that I have a penchant for the latter types of reading. Mobbes reads too: comics and Star Wars novels and of late, he has ventured into slightly more classic works like the Narnia series, even thinking of venturing into Tolkien-land. I’m happy about this I must admit, because I hope that one day Dobbes will cultivate the same love for real books and keep it with him forever.

I used to laugh at Mobbes when he claimed to be a reader. Maybe it’s a little bit pompous of me but at that time (and maybe even now) I don’t think he has the same relationship with books the way I do. I still have books from my childhood, books which have been re-read to death, fluff fiction, serious heavy novels, books that I have two copies of because I thought I lost one and simply needed to read it again so had to get another copy (then promptly found the old one). I keep all my books. Granted, they are in boxes now, having made way for Dobbes’ things but I can’t wait for the day I can resurrect them and house them properly in the library of our new home.

Mobbes, on the other hand, has given his books away (ok, I would too if I all I had were Japanese comic school series I never read anymore…) and borrows new ones from friends or the library. He doesn’t think it necessary at all to buy books to keep.

“I keep them so I can re-read them,” I tell him. “Or even if I don’t, it’s just to have, because I want to collect.”

I’m not one of those pristine book collectors either, which Mobbes also cannot understand. If one were to collect books, their spines should be intact, their corners sharp, perhaps even should be bound in clear plastic sheets, the way collectible comics are treated.

Unfortunately my books aren’t like that. They have creased spines, jagged corners, pages inside where I’ve spilled coffee and also maybe some tears. Different books chart different phases of my life, where I’ve sought them out for refuge against cruel words or a broken heart. And then there are books that contain paragraphs and paragraphs of food descriptions which I’ve devoured along with hot buttered toast or chocolate-chip cookies… I think there are still crumbs stuck in between the pages.

I grew up surrounded by books and grew to love them, often choosing them over toys or clothes as birthday presents when I was young. I moved from reading only fiction to essays (initially forced upon during ‘A’ levels and then Uni), then I began reading books on experiences which I sought or could relate too. Travel (my faves are the Rough Guide series, Luxe and Wallpaper guides) will always be a beloved book category, with fashion (Assouline books) and food (the Modern Food Library series: I LOVE them and want to have them ALL) coming in second together and design and décor third.

When motherhood beckoned, I boned up on every bit of baby-reading I could get my hands on, from Bibles such as the “What to expect when you’re expecting” series to Gina Ford’s books, The Baby Whisperer and Super Baby Food among others.

I also read magazines and used to keep them in stacks until the time came when space became a luxury I could no longer afford. Now I cut out articles and pics I like from mags and try to file them (sometimes they end up with curled edges and wet marks from being used as makeshift coasters…)

I guess the point I’m trying to make is that books have always been and will always be a part of my life. Having my books around comfort me, just like snuggling in old jammies and a blanket with soft tunes on the iPod and milk and cookies nearby. Books remind me of who I am and how far in life I’ve come. There will always be books wherever I build a home for myself, Mobbes and Dobbes.

And as you Dobbes, grow stronger, cleverer and more independent and playful than ever, I will turn to books for an excuse for us to cuddle and talk. And maybe, just maybe, you will love these sessions and books too (and it is telling the way you keep grabbing the ones I try to read…) just as much I do, even though they come in far behind me loving Mobbes & you.