Chestnut has mostly been reading in what I think of as a comforting way. You know: old American Girl books, Rotten Rhymes—books that have been happily read before. Lots if littler kid books.
It was on our coffee table? Or bookshelf? Something. She came upon it and has been reading it ever since. And rereading it. And rereading it again.
Why? I have no idea. It's a pretty strange book, honestly. I mean, I guess there's a cover quote by Daniel Handler? Which makes it…children's literature adjacent?
It's not that I'm complaining. I'm just some cross between befuddled and interested. I remember various books that really compelled me from my parents' bookshelves, and not for any reason I can identify now. But I would read them over and over. And it wasn't all Diseases of the Skin, either (sheesh—everyone can understand why you'd want to read that over and over). It was…weird books. How to Be a Jewish Mother (for real, this is a book). Having a Baby Can Be a Scream, by Joan Rivers. While The Screwtape Letters, which I had very high hopes for (C.S. Lewis!), was a total dud.
Anyway, that's what we're reading around here. Happy inexplicable reading to you all!