I am an undercover nerd. If you have been following my blog since its inception, you may have stumbled across a few clues to my incognito geekdom (see my previous post, “It’s Not Easy Being Green“). I am not obvious about it: I do not wear a Steve Urkel pocket protector and regulation highwaters or play D&D while drinking Faygo in my basement, but I will admit to a near-OCD need for correct spelling and proficient organization.
My obligation to order, however, does not seem to infect every area of my life. For example, if you saw the uncontrollable chaos that is my guest room, you might wonder if a pack of wild gnomes devised a midnight home invasion simply to empty the contents of my closet onto the bed, desk, and floor. (Those little guys may look cute in their pointy red hats, but they’re sneaky.) On the other hand, my book collection is arranged alphabetically by author, and I can put my hands on my copy of “The Count of Monte Cristo” in approximately 2.4 seconds. I think the source of this segregation comes from my personal perception of worth. In all honesty, if those wiley gnomes ate a hole through my knee-high black leather boots, I could find substitutes if I was willing to shell out the dough. But, although almost none of my books are expensive or rare, each has sentimental value that cannot be replaced with a simple trip to Barnes & Nobles.
The original member of my collection.
While my basement bookshelves hold the usual mix of modern fiction, biographies, and classics, the top two hold the best part of my collection: my children’s books. The original member of this medley is “The F-U-N Book” by Mabel Guinnip LaRue. With such riveting short stories as “Goose-Goose and Pig-Pig” and “Woody Woodchuck,” I’m sure you’ve never heard of it. Set in electrotype in the ’20s, it was my grandmother’s first reader. She gave it to me when I was six years old, and while I didn’t appreciate it then, now I’m quite happy I was able to hang on to it for a couple of decades.
My favorite piece of this varied assortment is a picture book by Berkeley Breathed (illustrator of the “Bloom County” comics) titled “Edwurd Fudwupper Fibbed Big.” The book is about Edwurd, a boy who plays baseball in his house, breaks his mother’s ceramic pig, and tells a ginormous whopper to cover up his crime. Just when Edwurd is about to get in terrible trouble, his sister, Fannie, fibs and says she broke the pig. (She’d learned to lie from the best, of course.) Edwurd won’t let his little sister take the rap by herself and, so, confesses.
My favorite collection piece.
“…But we sat in Time Out to pay for our crimes.
Then Ed looked at me with a smile that was new
And said, ‘It is nice to have one like you.’
Two former fibsters, that Edwurd and me
But brother and sister we finally be.”
My big brother gave me this very special book for Christmas several years ago, and if those pesky gnomes so much as scratch the dust jacket, they will find themselves utilized as statues in my weed-riddled flower beds.
After visiting Borders (again) this weekend, I have added another component to the assemblage: “Tell Me Again About the Night I Was Born.” By Jamie Lee Curtis (who adopted two children of her own), this picture book is about a little girl who begs her mother to tell her the story of her birth:
My latest addition.
“Tell me again about the night I was born.
Tell me again how you and Daddy were curled up like spoons and Daddy was snoring.
Tell me again how the phone rang in the middle of the night and they told you I was born.
Tell me again how you screamed.”
Because stories about adoption seem like a pretty niche market for the under-5 crowd, I was slightly (although pleasantly) surprised when I came across this gem. Intrigued, I began searching the children’s section of the store. An hour later, I was a bit more astonished when I figured out that “Tell Me Again” was the only adoption-centric kids’ book I was going to find. (Online outlets, such as Tapestry Books, are your best bet.) I was not at all amazed, however, when I returned home and unwrapped my purchase, only to realize that this book is the first possession I have bought for my future child. No annoying rattles or designer baby booties for my kid! I sure hope the love of reading is one of those nurture vs. nature things, because I apparently have been unwittingly amassing my little one’s book collection for years.
Looks like I might have to teach my munchkin how keep his/her nerd status classified, too. It’s all right, kid, Mom has had a lot of practice.
2 comments
Comments feed for this article
November 11, 2009 at 11:43 am
Big Brother
Awww…it got a little dusty in here for a second.
November 15, 2009 at 3:48 am
mrsdmenopausemom
Loved hearing about your books. I have also been thinking about how few books on adoption are out there. I have yet to find one about adoption a 2 yr old rather than an infant. Maybe we shall just have to write books of our own:)
PS – I too like things orderly and organized. Yet, somehow since we adopted our son , that has pretty much gone out the window. I truly believe he as paranormal powers that make things fly up into the air and land in the most unusual places in our house! So, instead of just one room that looks like gnomes have been at work, our whole house has become that way. I still love him and am grateful that we have him to make a mess.:)