Anne Ursu very eloquently expresses the value of books for kids.
A year ago, my little boy learned to read.
He’d been staring at books in his room at night all summer—way past when any respectable mother of a five-year-old would have declared lights out. I thought he was studying the pictures, and I figured any time spent with books was good. I had no idea he was actually reading them until one day he pointed at a road sign and exclaimed, “Bump!”
I loved watching him with books; I’d wanted him to be a reader so badly because I’d had such an intense relationship with books growing up. I was a shy, sensitive little kid, and as I got older, I was more and more bewildered by the vagaries of interpersonal relationships—but I was always at home in the pages of a book. I read everything, all the time—my mom says on Friday afternoons I would disappear into…
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