Tag Archives: children’s literature

October 14, 2026 · 1:25 pm

Reading Between the Lines

Not long ago, I was waiting at my local garage having my oil changed along with a couple of other repairs for my car. Since I knew it might be a considerable wait, I brought along a good book to keep me company, as I often do. Soon after I sat down, a man approached me, intending to sit down beside me, since he had to wait for his car repair, too. He asked if I was planning to watch the traffic outside to pass the time since the wall facing the road was a bank of floor to ceiling windows. I, of course, gestured to my book and answered that I intended to read.

He then proceeded to scoff at my response, suggesting that, “Books aren’t really a thing anymore. They’re a rarity. People don’t read books anymore.” I hate to say that he was mansplaining, but he was mansplaining. At the very least, it was patronizing.

“You think? I questioned sarcastically. Then I picked up my book and started to read, as I had planned. After a few moments, I leaned over and quietly informed him that I had WRITTEN two books. The look on his face was priceless, and worth all the time and effort I had invested in writing those books. He then had me repeat what I had said, to help him better understand that I had created two physical books. He then sat down in his chair in stunned silence.

As it turns out, the mansplainer might have been right. According to Sunil Iyengar in an article published by the National Endowment for the Arts in 2024, less than half of U.S. adults had read at least one book in the past year (the study was conducted by the U.S. Census Bureau in 2022). Ten years earlier, the percentage was almost 55. As for fiction-reading in that same study, just shy of 38% claimed to have read a novel or short story (2022) compared to over 45% in 2012.

According to an article by the National Literacy Institute (2024-2025), 54% of adults read below a 6^th grade level, while 20% were below a 5^th grade level. It’s hard to even wrap my mind around these statistics, not to mention how disheartening it is.

The concerning trend apparently is evident in children, too. As cited in the National Endowment for the Arts article mentioned above, in 2012 more than half of all nine-year-olds reported reading for fun “almost every day.” In 2022, it dropped to just 39%. This is beyond disturbing.

Our own Webb Weekly editor, Steph Noviello, recently addressed the topic of falling literacy rates in the Unites States in her September 2^nd article entitled, International Literacy Day: Why Reading Matters More Than Ever. In the piece, she stressed the importance of reading, especially for children, and suggested how we as a community can help foster and truly value literacy. I’m honestly encouraged that people like Steph regularly draw readers’ attention to such unsettling trends in this country—perhaps helping to shine a light in an otherwise dark corner of our history as it relates to something as basic as literacy.

And as Rich Lowry recently expressed in the Opinion pages of the Sun-Gazette, maybe part of the problem stems from the fact that kids are spending an enormous amount of time each day (in school and at home) on screens. He also suggested that social media and AI may be equally detrimental to their overall learning and attention.

Perhaps most alarming are Ray Bradbury’s words:

“The problem in our country isn’t with books being banned, but with people no longer reading.”

“You don’t have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them.”

It seems as though what we’re experiencing of late is a perfect storm. Literacy rates are plummeting nationwide, while at the same time a lot of people are choosing not to read, even if they can read.

I think we would do well as a populace to defy the literacy trends by doing our part—to encourage kids to read by making books readily available to them and to read aloud to them often. Likewise, we should support our public libraries and local bookstores, and, of course, get caught reading.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably reading a good book). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

A Sacrilege of Sorts

There are but two kinds of people in this world—those who brazenly read the endings of books before the endings are actually reached and those who would never dream of a crime so heinous. I myself fall with the masses into the latter category, always mindful of the tenets we must uphold: Thou shalt not spoil the endings of good books no matter how dire the circumstance or how great the temptation.

Of course I’ve been so bold as to glance at the last page while contemplating a purchase in the aisle of a bookstore, allowing my eyes to sweep across the fuzziness of passages, to graze but not actually rest on hallowed words, erasing all hope of ever being rewarded for my ability to resist that which is sinfully alluring. If nothing else, I can be proud of that.

However it wasn’t until I was deeply immersed in The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane (Chapter Seven of this scrumptious read-aloud, more specifically) that I became painfully aware of a terrible truth: my children would (and, in fact, had) flipped ahead 20 chapters in said prized piece of literature, to the very last page (gasp!) “…because I wanted to know what would happen to Edward, Mom. I was worried about him. He lives, you know.”

Of course, I was horrified. And profoundly disappointed. I had higher hopes for my progenies—hopes that they would grow to become upstanding citizens, embodying all-that-is-righteous-and-good. Principled people who knew better than to commit sacrilege. Instead, it appears, my wayward bunch has embraced the dark side of life. Even my oldest daughter has admitted to that which is a sheer disgrace—she reads the very last sentence of every novel—as a rule. Needless to say, such a divulgence rendered me speechless and unable to move from the spot where I stood, slack mouthed and struck with horror.

“Why?! Why would you do such a thing?!” I had to ask finally, eyes fixed upon the creature I thought I knew.

“I don’t know. To pique my interest I guess.”

“To pique your interest?!” I shrieked, shaking my head in disbelief. “Good grief! Where’s the mystery in that?! Where’s the long-awaited pleasure that a grand culmination promises?! The delicious sense of satisfaction derived from having journeyed far and wide across the vast and uncertain terrain of a narrative gem?!” I demanded to know.

She shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “What’s the big deal, Mom? It’s just a book.”

Of course, this was wrong on so many levels that I couldn’t begin to wrap my mind around the unspeakable horribleness of which it reeked. Nor could I forgive the other two rat finks for having stolen my joy. I wanted to discover for myself Edward Tulane’s fate—to continue devouring the book, page after succulent page, and eventually, to drink in the magnificence of the grand finale that surely awaited me.

But it was not to be. Those devilish creatures continued to fill my ears unmercifully with details of the story, doling out bite sized blurbages just to watch me writhe in pain. “No! NO! Don’t tell me a syllable more!” I pleaded, wondering from whence this penchant had come. I don’t remember anyone bursting at the seams to tell me all about Goldilocks or Little Red Riding Hood, Chicken Little or even the Poky Little Puppy. Back then, apparently, it was a non-issue. The end was something that would be revealed in due time upon turning the last page. As it should be.

I’d almost rather my heathens wantonly fling caterpillars across the living room and stuff them inside their backpacks (oh wait, they’ve done that!), saturate thirsty bath rugs at will (done that, too!), fill countless drawers with water enough to make hair brushes and blow dryers float (and that!), or plaster the dog with lipstick “…’cause we wanted to give him purple-ish lips, Mom!” than to rob themselves of the parting gift of a fine book.

Sadly, this represents yet one more area of life I cannot control. I must come to grips with the fact that my children will choose friends, careers and eventually mates—almost entirely devoid of my (infinitely sagacious) input. And ultimately they will decide whether to continue as card-carrying members of the Flip-Ahead-to-the-Last-Page Club. Ugh.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/notesfromplanetmom

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Filed under "S" is for Shame, Bookish Stuff, In the Trenches of Parentville, motherhood, Rantings & Ravings, The Natives are Decidedly Restless, The Write Stuff, Unplugged

Tagged as books, children's literature, parenting, parenting humor, read aloud, reading

September 29, 2025 · 6:16 pm

A Sacrilege of Sorts

“Why?! Why would you do such a thing?!” I had to ask finally, eyes fixed upon the creature I thought I knew.

“I don’t know. To pique my interest I guess.”

She shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “What’s the big deal, Mom? It’s just a book.”

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom.

Comments Off on A Sacrilege of Sorts

Filed under "S" is for Shame, Bookish Stuff, Growing Pains, In the Trenches of Parentville, motherhood, Rantings & Ravings, The Natives are Decidedly Restless, Unplugged

Tagged as books, children's literature, parenting, parenting humor, read aloud, reading

March 11, 2021 · 4:53 pm

Have You Hugged a Book Today?

We have a library in our house, which sounds slightly more impressive than it actually is. The area in question is far from a sprawling expanse littered with overstuffed chairs and an abundance of narrative gems. More correctly, our so-called library occupies a modest corner of our home—a place where a blue-checkered playpen once stood seemingly forever. Nevertheless, it is a space devoted to all-things-bookish. A small yet infinitely important enclave that exists for the sole purpose of fueling my children’s passion for reading. As it should be—during this National Reading Month of March, and always.

Almost a decade has passed since we began gathering a hodgepodge of titles and piling them into some semblance of order there upon the floor of our living room. Tallest to smallest. Favorites within easy reach. A perfect mélange of new and not-so-new tales—thanks to having traversed this parenting path once before.

Naturally, said books would spill out into the room after a certain couple of somebodies (read: Toddler One and Toddler Two) raided the cache, leaving a trail of literary goodness in their collective wake. Never mind that only yesterday pillows and great herds of stuffed animals were dragged there and commissioned for the purpose of building reading “nests” and whatnot. Only recently have we been able to place the prized entities elsewhere (i.e. upon the honey-colored bookshelf that now inhabits the aforementioned corner—the one that boasts a cavernous window through which the morning sun pours almost without fail).

It is perhaps a bit more special given that the shelf itself was one that my husband had designed and built back in 1969. It was the high school shop project that seemed destined never to be finished. Lo and behold, the four-tiered wonder was completed and for some 40 years it lived in his childhood home. That’s where I first ogled its glossy, maple finish—along with a handful of teakwood carvings that sat upon its top shelf. A one-humped camel and an Asian elephant with a missing tusk. Keepsakes that hailed from afar. Treasures with which my children were enamored each and every time we visited Grandma.

I guess I never really thought about the notion of my mother-in-law not being there to witness their growing curiosity. Nor did I entertain the possibility of adopting her wooden bookshelf when she died—complete with the coveted carvings. Of course, they still sit atop the shelf, nodding approval with each book selection my charges make. Grandma would be pleased, I’m sure.

Likewise, I think she’d be pleased to learn of the strides her granddaughters have made since kindergarten, and how their love of books has flourished during that same wedge of time. No longer do they reach for bedtime favorites like Goodnight Moon, the brilliantly penned Where the Wild Things Are, the infinitely tender Guess How Much I Love You and the exceedingly palpable Wilfred Gordon McDonald Partridge. Even Dr. Seuss has fallen out of favor with my brood.

Indeed, the pure and simple joy of picture books has been replaced by the all-consuming nature of chapter books—ones that invite my progenies to dwell for a time, deliciously entangled within the words on a given page. Needless to say, their tastes have grown more sophisticated, as has their command of vocabulary. That said, Thing One is completely smitten with mysteries, all-things-Harry-Potter and that which is disturbingly terrifying while Thing Two is fond of cookbooks and craft books, although she went through an interminable phase during which she would read nothing unless its plot somehow involved a godforsaken dog, a horse blessed with the ability to speak or a wretched hamster. Of course, they both feast voraciously upon the celebrated Diary of a Wimpy Kid series, practically anything ever written by Roald Dahl, Barbara Park or Kate DiCamillo, and sadly, the idiocy that is Captain Underpants.

All things considered, I deem my children’s journey as emerging readers to have been nothing short of remarkable, and I can’t help but feel indebted to those who’ve helped cultivate their enduring love of books—during this National Reading Month of March, and always.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (with an abundance of books worthy of hugging…and barely able to breathe ever since a request was made for Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Tagged as books, children, children's literature, humor, March, National Reading Month, parenting, reading

January 27, 2021 · 5:20 pm

A Sacrilege of Sorts

Seems like just yesterday I was reading aloud to my kids…

Of course I’ve been so bold as to glance at the last page while contemplating a purchase in the aisle of a bookstore, allowing my eyes to sweep across the fuzziness of passages, to graze but not actually rest on hallowed words, erasing all hope of ever being rewarded for my ability to resist said allure. If nothing else, I can be proud of that.

“Why?! Why would you do such a thing?!” I had to ask finally, eyes fixed upon the creature I thought I knew.

“I don’t know. To pique my interest I guess.”

She shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “What’s the big deal, Mom? It’s just a book.”

Of course, this was wrong on so many levels that I couldn’t begin to wrap my mind around the unspeakable atrociousness of which it reeked. Nor could I forgive the other two ratfinks for having stolen my joy. I wanted to discover for myself Edward Tulane’s fate—to continue devouring the book, page after succulent page, and eventually, to drink in the magnificence of the grand finale that surely awaited me.

But it was not to be. Those unmerciful beasts continued to fill my ears with details of the story, doling out bite sized blurbages just to watch me writhe in pain. “No! NO! Don’t tell me a syllable more!” I pleaded, wondering from whence this penchant had come. I don’t remember anyone bursting at the seams to tell me about Goldilocks or Little Red Riding Hood. Back then it was a non-issue. The end was something that would be revealed in due time upon turning the last page. As it should be.

I’d almost rather my heathens wantonly fling caterpillars across the living room and stuff them inside their backpacks (oh wait, they’ve done that!), saturate thirsty bath rugs at will (done that, too!), or festoon the dog with lipstick “…because we wanted to give him purple-ish lips, Mom!” than to rob themselves of the parting gift of a fine book.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (beside myself with indignation). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom. The content of this article, as it appears here, was previously published in the Khaleej Times.