Like many other readers, I have loved children’s books since I was a child. Children’s books are how my love for reading joined me on my journey to adulthood – but lately, I’ve noticed a concerning trend. Children’s books just aren’t as respected as books for adults.
Now I’m sure my readers who are also writers of children’s books just shouted a resounding DUH! But this was a new realization for me.
The other day, I had some time to kill and there was a bookstore nearby. After the most recent political climate, I needed some healing.
And where did I turn? The children’s section.
I flipped through the pages of five books, taking in the beautiful illustrations. And guess what? It was healing. I was calm, and for the first time in the week, I was content and centered within myself.
But I felt another emotion too – one that I’m almost ashamed to admit: embarrassment. Here I am, a full-grown childless woman, in the children’s section! What would other patrons think? I quickly listed all the excuses I could give for my existence in this area: I was Christmas shopping for a nephew, etc.
That moment, I realized I didn’t have to make excuses.
This past week has been stressful. Between the election and the protests that followed and the discord within disagreeing families, I needed a place to escape. And where better place to turn to than books? On a psychological level, where better to turn to than where my love of books began?
So I opened my arms to these children’s books, and I left in a much happier mood than I had when I walked in.
Why are there so many people who don’t consider children’s books as REAL books? What is a REAL book? As far as I’m concerned, if the work has a title and content that follows after it until there is an ending, it’s a book. I don’t care what genre, I don’t care what format. A book is a book is a book, even if the intended audience is too young to understand why political unrest is happening across the country.
I don’t have to miss children’s books. I don’t have to question myself when I want a quick read that takes me down the road of nostalgia, a road of bedtime stories and hugs and happy songs. And I most certainly do not need to apologize for reading what I like.
Also, the same goes for YA. But that’s for another blog post.
(Picture from Goodreads.)