So Tall and I are reading Ezra Jack Keats’ childhood classic, “The Snowy Day,” a book we have read a million gazillion times, if not more. Tall has morphed from the child who liked picture books to the one engrossed in real chapter books. Normally, he rebuffs my offers to read cute books like this one, but for some unknown reason, he is indulging me.
We get to the part where Peter has come back inside after playing in the snow:
“Peter tells his mother all about his adventures while she helps him take off his dirty socks.”
(turn the page)
“And then he thought about them and thought about them and thought about them. He could not stop thinking about them.”
This is when Tall laughs for about 20 minutes straight. His rich giggle reverberates and consumes his small room. He is well-aware that the author is referring to the adventures, but he jokingly interprets it as Peter thinking about the dirty socks.
“Why would Peter want to spend so much time thinking about his dirty socks? Bwa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha haha hahahaha!”
Tall climbs into his bed and pulls up the covers.
“Too bad the author didn’t have my teacher. She would never let him write like that,” says Tall matter-of-factly. “She would read his essay, pull him aside, and then—ZIP!—right into the trash!”