I managed to scrape up enough energy to get the kids out to a play date this week. Michael sat, awestruck, in the same spot, for the first hour or so, inspecting whatever toys came within his reach, and only in the last thirty minutes did it occur to him to crawl around and explore.
Abby, on the other hand, made a beeline for the corner of the room, and made herself comfortable amidst a pile of books.
She did wander out here and there, to get into a bit of mischief or scope out available food, but she spent most of her time quietly "reading." Unbidden, implausible Mommy-worries entered my head, and I had to remind myself that it was silly to be applying descriptors like "anti-social" to a child of her age- it's not like any of the kids really play together, anyway, but rather, parallel to each other. Once I moved past all of that, I was able to revel in my wonderment, and pride, over her love of books.
I only hope it carries over to when she learns to read for herself. And that she learns not to love her books quite so roughly. Every single one that she currently owns has been mauled in some tragic way.
It does appear, however, that when we make that unavoidable trip to return her two Madeline books to the library, that we must be sure to pick up one or two more. The mere mention of them has her running for the stairs to her room, eager for bedtime storytelling to begin.
Just this evening, we had a mini-meltdown at the prospect of having storytime delayed by the prerequisite tasks of tooth-brushing and changing into pajamas. (Tom made the mistake of mentioning the Madeline books before we had gotten those things out of the way.)
But once she was snuggled in her daddy's lap, and the book was laid open before her, all was right with the world again.