“This stack has to go,” my pre-teen son announced, gesturing toward the towering pile of picture books sprawled across his bedroom floor. I glanced at the empty spaces on his bookshelf, where three of the four shelves had been completely cleared. “I’m making room for my new books,” he declared.
This heap represented just a small portion of the picture books we once cherished, the beloved titles that had dodged numerous rounds of decluttering that sent most of our collection to donation bins. The remaining books had found refuge in my son’s room, as he was the youngest. But now, it seemed their time had come, too. Out went “Room on the Broom,” “Days with Frog and Toad,” and “The Paper Bag Princess,” replaced by the likes of the Hunger Games trilogy and “A Court of Thorns and Roses.”
I stared at the pile, wrestling with the decision of what to do with the displaced books. Could I justify keeping them in my bedroom? It felt strange to let them go. This marked the official end of our family’s picture book chapter, and I was taken aback by the wave of sadness that washed over me. Typically, I can part with outgrown clothes or toys without a hint of nostalgia. While I cherish the memories of my children’s early years, I wouldn’t wish to return to them. I value their growing independence and enjoy exploring the world alongside them instead of merely explaining it. I relish being taught the latest TikTok dance rather than leading them through “Wheels on the Bus.”
Yet, seeing those abandoned books stirred something deep within me. Each title held a unique kind of magic. They were filled with fairies, wizards, and whimsical creatures, depicting everyday life in the most enchanting ways. The delightful absurdities of Dr. Seuss and Mo Willems made perfect sense when shared with a small child. Julia Donaldson’s rhythmic prose propelled our voices as if they were on a joyful ride. Each book in that pile had a special charm that kept it in heavy rotation for years—“The Pocket Dogs,” “Harry’s Home,” “Plum Tree Cottage.”
But it wasn’t just their artistic value that made it hard to let go. In those early years, when my children were tiny and the days felt endless, picture books were my saving grace. We often hear about the benefits of reading to children, yet rarely discuss how rewarding it is for parents, too. Reflecting on it now, those stories were a form of therapy for me.
“A mouse went strolling through the deep dark wood/He saw a nut, and the nut was good.” (“The Gruffalo,” by Julia Donaldson) Therapists often recommend guided imagery to transport oneself to a calmer state of mind, yet picture books do this even better. Reading them aloud with children is like stepping into a self-contained universe. When we opened “The Gruffalo,” we found ourselves in the serene woods, inhaling the cool air between the trees. By the second page, our chaotic world—filled with toys, spilled Cheerios, and unwashed dishes—was far behind us.
“Winnie lived in her black house with her cat, Wilbur. He was black too. And that is how the trouble began.” (“Winnie the Witch,” by Korky Paul and Valerie Thomas) Therapists teach mindfulness, urging us to be fully present. Anyone who’s walked with a toddler, who takes an eternity to traverse just a few feet (the ants! the sidewalk crack! a candy wrapper!), knows that mindfulness comes naturally to children. Illustrators of picture books understand this too, filling the pages with intricate details that withstand multiple readings. Each time we revisited Winnie’s story, we’d discover something new—a tiny lizard on the wall, a pitch-black toilet—encouraging us to slow down and be present.
“Then I dreamed I was sleeping on billowy billows/Of soft-silk and satin marshmallow-stuffed pillows.” (“I Had Trouble in Getting to Solla Sollew,” Dr. Seuss) Therapists advocate for self-care. Snuggling up with a book alongside a few warm children was as close to a spa day as I could get during those hectic times. The kids and I would get cozy together, their boundless energy temporarily paused. A child nestled in my lap, another leaning against me, while I whispered the words over their soft heads. I made sure to keep a stack of books within reach so we could linger in that comfortable space for a long while.
“You’re not awake/it’s six o’clock. You hear a ring, you hear knock-knock.” (“The Birthday Monsters,” by Sandra Boynton) Therapists also suggest being gentle with oneself. The beauty of picture books for a tired parent is that the authors have already done the heavy lifting. On days when I felt like a zombie after another sleepless night with my restless sleepers, I lacked the creative energy to engage in play. However, reading aloud created a seamless connection from my eyes to my mouth, bypassing the brain. I’m convinced I read some stories to the kids while I was, neurologically speaking, still asleep.
Sometimes, people would commend me for the effort I put into reading to my children so often. But here’s my secret: If all that reading had truly been for them—like persuading them to eat their vegetables or practice the violin—I wouldn’t have done nearly so much of it. I don’t have that much good-parent energy in me. During that time, I was really doing it for myself.
So, I’m holding onto our cherished favorites, like an emergency stash of sanity, in case I ever need to care for little ones again.
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