An autobiography that's not truthful is useless. Who cares what someone imagined their life to be? I think we know how easy it is to lie to oneself and that's why people get so pissy about autobios that contain inaccuracies--actually *living* something is the impressive challenge, and that's the story people crave.
But look, I'm doing it again- avoiding. See?
So basically, with time running for this week, I had three options:
1. Go with the theme "My Dad," even though I'm not ready to talk about it-- there are a lot of happy chapters there, too, and I could go with one of those
2. Weakly, hastily construct a new storytime on a poorly thought out theme like "my sisters AGAIN" or something
3. Phone it in and break theme for a week.
Fortunately, I have backup: personal copies.
Personal copies are an important part of one's storytime arsenal especially in cases such as the delightful One, Two, Three O'Leary, written by Malachy Doyle and illustrated by (sigh!) Will Hillenbrand. This book is all about rhymes and nonsense sounds and silly words (and a dad who looks like Conan O'Brien). I've read it so many times out loud, and I've found that the fast you can spit it, the better it's received.
Ibble obble, blue bottle, Ibble bobble bout
Turn your silk pajamas inside out
First you turn them inside, then you turn them out,
Ibble obble, blue bottle, ibble bobble OUT!
On each repetition of "OUT," another adorable O'Leary child falls out of bed, until the only one left is the father who has chased the last one away by putting on a sheet and pretending to be the boogeyman. Dude needs his space, okay?
I have always related to this one since there were sooo many of us growing up, and because my family was super into our Irish heritage. I mean, into it in an American way, where I watched Darby O'Gill and the Little People over and over and wore my Irish Rovers record into dust. We were Irish way way back, but I think the most recent immigrants in my family came over in the 1860s.
I love Father Fox's Pennyrhymes (written by Clyde Watson, illustrated by Wendy Watson) far more as an adult than I did as a child, and I was pretty attached to it then. The pictures had this perfect blend of sweetness and scariness. Look at those soft, pretty colors, cute black ears, and sharp, SHARP TEETH.
This one is poems, and there are a lot of them, so I didn't plan to read this whole book-- just one poem. I planned to have the kids pat the rhythm on their knees while I read it:
Nanny banny bumblebee
Nanny is my cup of tea
I'm as happy as can be
When I've got Nanny on my knee.
Incidentally, I was surprised to learn as an adult that Clyde and Wendy Watson are sisters, not a married couple as I'd always pictured.
Also, I should note here that I once spent about two weeks refinishing a bookshelf with color photocopies from Father Fox, and that I still own that bookshelf and would never, ever give it up. Full disclosure.
Ohhh, the joy of There Are Cats In This Book (by Viviane Schwarz). It's a teeny bit awkward to read with a group as the cats spend a lot of time exhorting "you" to turn a page ("well don't mind if I do, kids! no, you stay sitting! Miss Amy turns this page!"). But generally kids are so charmed by the bright, happy illustrations that they forget they aren't actually turning the pages.
My family had six cats growing up. They were mostly my fault-- I captured the mother, then puppy-eyed my mom into letting us keep her. And all her babies. And the kitten she cornered under our porch a few months after the babies came along. There were most certainly cats in this house.
Okay, this one I don't own: Don't Squish the Sasquatch, by Kent Redecker, illustrated by Bob Staake. But I spent a lot of kid-time expressing my desire--loudly--to not be squished in the car. I totally understand Sasquatch's decision to explode at the end.
Coming up: the results!!
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