With the brightly-colored book now in my hands, I moved the pillow out of the way. My four-year-old daughter snuggled closer to me. No light remained outside, and the warmth of the lamp next to us glowed softly. “Let’s read The Lorax!” my daughter excitedly announced.
Placing my feet gently upon the coffee table, I settled in. “Let’s do it, honey!” I said. On the table where my feet now rested lay a disheveled pile of colorful Dr. Seuss books. This week, my two older daughters and I have been spending time in our respective schools participating in “Dr. Seuss Spirit Weeks.” I smiled as I regarded the pile of books; the girls pulled every one of them off the shelf, I thought to myself.
Tonight felt special. For some reason, my four-year-old has resisted Dr. Seuss up until this week. Why is that? Not sure. We’d read plenty of Curious George, Snowy Day, Corduroy, fairy tales and nursery rhymes . . . dozens and dozens of books. But for some reason, Dr. Seuss had not yet captured her interest.
However, now here we sat, we two, snuggled together on the couch- not our normal location nor routine, but that was okay. We started in.
Then, the priceless moment.
I read the words from The Lorax:
He lurks in his Lerkim, cold under the roof,
where he makes his own clothes
out of miff muffered moof.
Suddenly, my daughter gasped, repeating the nonsense word “miff muffered moof” aloud. “Papa! I know what that is!” she exclaimed.
Feigning genuine intrigue, I widened my eyes and turned to her. “You do?!” I asked.
Eyes now sparkling, she nodded. “Yes! But . . . it’s a secret,” she whispered. Cupping her hands over my right ear, she leaned in close. I felt her warm breath as the barely-audible word came: “Fabric.”
I turned to her again. “Fabric,” I quietly repeated. “I bet you’re right, honey.”