The other night I read Knuffle Bunny to M (she was feeling sick and babyish). Knuffle Bunny is the quintessential picture book. It's got great pictures, for one thing, and a story that is at once suspenseful, humorous, universal, and succinct. If you have a small child, you must get Knuffle Bunny. If you know a small child, you must get them Knuffle Bunny. If you live in Brooklyn, you probably already have Knuffle Bunny, and if you don't, what are you waiting for?
What struck me this read was when Trixie says "Aggle flaggle klabble," and her father is absolutely certain he knows what she means: "'That's right,' replied her daddy. 'We're going home.'" Of course that's not what Trixie means at all, and she keeps saying "Aggle flaggle klabble," and he keeps misunderstanding her, and by the time they get home, he is furious and she is miserable.
Been there, done that.
Trying to understand what your children are saying is one of the great tasks of parenthood. And when they can speak, it's not necessarily easier. Sure, the speaking child never confronts you with "Aggle flaggle klabble," but there's plenty of room for (mis)interpretation nonetheless.
I have enough trouble understanding myself. When I feel like I can't go on, does it mean that I'm tired? hungry? coming down with a cold? depressed?
Who on earth thought I was fit to understand other people?
When M woke up this morning and said that her belly hurt, did it mean that the virus had moved to her stomach? that her body was cramped and tense from yesterday's ordeal? that she was constipated? that she was worried about being sick and missing school? that she hates us for making her leave Red State Capital City Suburb? all of the above?
In Knuffle Bunny, the dad figures out exactly what Trixie is saying (don't worry, I won't give it away). That's the great thing about picture books, indeed, about fiction more broadly taken, or at least fiction that obeys the rules, as picture books are particularly prone to do. Fiction can give you answers, wrap everything up, make order and sense of the chaos. When you're done with a picture book, you, along with the characters, understand. I don't think I wish my life was a picture book, because I do, in fact, like complexity and ambiguity, not to mention length. Still, there's clearly a reason I'm addicted to fiction and rarely turn down an opportunity to read a kid a picture book, even when I know what happens.
[In case you're wondering, I'll take Jane Austen over Don DeLillo any day of the week.]
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I have to confess I don't have Knuffle Bunny--supposedly everyone in my house is beyond picture books (except maybe me). But in my admittedly quick reading of it standing up in the bookstore, I thought it was the mom who figured out what Trixie was saying, after the dad had blown it for a while. Is that wrong?
I had this whole "which parent knows the kid best" analysis going on, but I'd be really happy to be wrong about that, actually.
Oh, and yes yes yes on the pleasures of fiction. Me too. But you knew that.
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