We love books around here.
They are so much a part of our activities, discussions, and figuring life out.
You'll frequently find us with our noses in books.
Scott and I staying up into the late hours, stuck in our books, reading before sleep.
Me and the kids.
Scott reading them bedtime stories (when he's home).
We love it all.
Last week I was thinking about two particular incidents that arose from reading.
One new, and one old.
A couple of weeks back we read this book, one of our library finds. It is the story of a Jewish boy and his parents who are taken to separate concentration camps in World War II. The little boy plays the harmonica, and is especially fond of Schubert. The head man at that camp loves Schubert and has the boy come and play for him every night, after which he tosses him a piece of bread.
When we read this story, we discussed what happened to the Jews during that dark time of history.
I asked them if they thought it was right to discriminate like that.
How poorly they were treated.
How it was wrong.
I pulled out a book of Speeches that we have and showed them a picture of Adolf Hitler, and explained that he was the leader of the Nazis.
A couple of days later, as I hear the kids playing downstairs, I hear several references to "Rudolph Hitler."
I'm not gonna lie.
I thought it was hilarious.
Although I would correct them when I heard it over the next several days, giving them his proper name, I have to admit I wasn't too worried about it because he isn't someone I have a lot of respect for.
And, an old one.
The kids love the Beatrix Potter books.
When we first started reading these a long time ago, Isaiah's favorite quickly became The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck.
But, this was one of the funniest things.
No matter how I corrected him on the pronunciation (he has since mastered it), he would always ask me,
"Mom, can we read the Bajima book?"
As long as it's that bajima book, and not what it sounds like it's referring to.