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Books Don’t Hurt Kids — Bad Adults do
No matter how saucy the book, it can’t hurt your kid
I read a lot as a kid. A LOT. I’m thankful for growing up in the pre-digital age, because it forced me to read books. I grew up in a dysfunctional, abusive, divorced home. I had ADHD and was bored, sad or depressed (or all three at once) most of the time.
My escape, my salvation, my sanity, was books. And I read all kinds of books at all levels, from about the age of nine. I was nine when I read Tom Sawyer and fell in love with it. I was nine when my teacher introduced me to Harriet the Spy and my world was forever changed for the better.
The best thing my mother ever did for me was teach me to read at a very young age. She always insists I learned to read by the time I was 3, and that tracks, because I honestly have no memories of her reading to me. All I can remember was reading to myself.
I read the books in my room over and over and over until my teachers started turning me on to checking out books from the school library, which I did, every single week. Come summer, my brother and I would often ride our bikes to the public library to cool off, avoid being at home, and to check out books, which helped us escape from the fighting and chaos in the house.
