I read to my kids every night. Every single night. I can’t remember the last time they went to bed without me reading them a book.
Normally, we read things like The Missing Piece, by Shel Silverstein. Or Six Dinner Sid, by Inga Moore. The Mysterious Tadpole, by Steven Kellogg, and Elbert’s Bad Word, by Audrey and Don Wood, are some of our recent favorites.
And then there’s Pete the Cat. I’m normally neutral on the whole Pete the Cat issue. But reading Pete the Cat: TheWheels on the Bus?
I mean, the repetition is enough to drive an adult who’s been adulting for 12 plus hours straight over the cliff of appropriate emotional responses, at the bottom of which they will absolutely explode in a firey, hellish episode of psychological burnination.
And say words which they then have to explain why, for their four-year-olds, it’s inappropriate to say. And then justify their own bad behavior with jargon-y big words. Like “deflection.” Which is the cognitive fallacy around which the entire teachable moment revolves.
If I were to write a review for this book on Amazon, it would read:
“This book makes me want to
This book makes me want to
In. The. Face.”