Our Roald Dahl collection started entirely by accident, but that’s often the case when collecting books, isn’t it?
When I married my husband, I had a son from a previous relationship. As is expected, the two hadn’t quite found the moment that clicked between them. My son was preschool age and generally regarded my husband as the tall, odd man that fed and bathed him. My husband was (is) a tall, odd man who wanted nothing more than to lavish his new stepson with all manner of love and be-spoil-ment. Then one night, purely by chance or else divine intervention, I got called into work to cover a late shift.
I got home right as bath-time was accomplished, pajamas administered, and my son was running down the hall to pick out a bedtime story. Normally I did story-time in his room, squatting awkwardly next to his tiny bed, but I was content to watch and see how my husband might do things differently.
When my son came pelting out of his room with no books in hand and swerved for the living room of our tiny apartment, I nearly stopped him. I’m glad I didn’t. (more…)