There’s something about sitting next to the bed of your small children, cracking open a musty-smelling old book, and reading classic poetry to them.
It’s storybookish.
Until…
Mary dies.
I had just finished reading the MOST beautiful lullabye poem, gently turned the page, and started reading the very non-biblical story of Mary and Martha. As I read, I had to catch a cough in my throat.
Maybe the kids wouldn’t understand what I was reading. But maybe they would… and they’d be scared in obedience.
I do confess to using the story of “The Boy Who Cried Wolf” to scare my children into honesty, and it worked wonders. I read another beautiful poem about two birds, newly wedded, trying to find a place to build their nest. It was adorable.
And then.
Who knew soap could be so deadly? I mean: TURTLES FATTENED ON HIS BLOOD!!!
I also read a beautiful poem about Toyland… my daughter’s favorite. And then I read a poem about a little girl named Helen who didn’t wear her galoshes outside in winter and (you guessed it!) died of croup.
Sweet dreams, babies! *yikes*
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