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And for Our Next Book – Captain Underpants and the Perilous Plot of Professor Poopypants

Beth died last night.  She was supposed to die tonight, but my hard-hearted husband hastened her departure by going to bed early.  Of course, he did not know that he was killing Beth by doing this.  And the alternative would have just prolonged the inevitable.  But still.

I had put off preparing for the death because I thought I would have more time.  But Cap’n Firepants threw the zinger at me at our daughter’s bed time that he was pretty exhausted, and could I please read tonight?  He stepped back from me a bit when I acted like he had just asked me to climb the roof at midnight and clean up squirrel poop.  Generally, I jump at the chance for an extra night to read to our daughter.  But I dreaded the chapter that I knew was next.

Cap’n Firepants reads a different book with Dimples, so he can be forgiven for not knowing that he had just asked me to walk into the Valley of Death.  And, I am sure that he would point out that I was the one who picked the book in the first place.

It’s just that I did not realize that Beth’s death in Little Women would occur while I am still in mourning over the approximately one hundred and thirteen people who perished in Les Miserables.  I am still reeling from that massacre, and the repercussions of its soundtrack, and now I had to add one more body to the pile.

Plus, Dimples and I had just recently had our class picture argument, and I was pretty sure that reading an entire chapter to her about the death of a beloved character was not going to endear me any more to her.  She makes it a point to avoid sappy death scenes in books, and I had kind of tricked her into this one.

Of course, Dimples handled it much better than I did.  She is not a middle-aged mother fighting depression and haunted by visions of Anne Hathaway dreaming a dream as she is dying in a filthy street in Paris.  And, I think that it is entirely possible that she would be happy with all of the characters being killed off as I have probably referred to these paragons of virtue a little too often. (“Do you think Beth would complain if her mother asked her to clean the toilet?  Do you think Beth even had a toilet?”)

Fortunately, she has not compared me to Marmee, yet.  Because we all know how that Battle of the Moms would shake out.

So, at the end of the day I cried more than she did.  And that night, I dreamed my dear daughter was in the hospital dying from the flu.

I try not to censor my daughter’s reading, but I’m beginning to think someone should probably censor mine.

Now that I think about, guess which one of us cried more for the Velveteen Rabbit?

Now that I think about it, guess which one of us cried more for the Velveteen Rabbit?

Please Don’t Tell Her About the Other Version

If the four sisters in Little Women suddenly received a telegram announcing that they were really witches with secret powers, and their father needed their help fighting zombies in the Civil War, my daughter might have been a bit more interested when I proposed reading the book to her.  As it was, though, she looked at me quite doubtfully when I told her that one of my favorite childhood classics is about “four sweet girls who lived a long time ago – before Facebook”.

As I pointed out, however, she had chosen the last couple of bedtime books, and it was my turn.  “Just give it a try,” I said. “If you don’t like it after the first three chapters, we can pick something else.”

So, she settled in, and listened to this completely unbelievable tale of girls who endlessly lose or soil the gloves that they must wear to parties, and who think of pickled limes as the ultimate luxury.

As I read, I began to yearn, as I always do, for simpler times – times when receiving a pair of slippers at Christmas as one’s only gift was cause for great exuberance, and youngsters spent afternoons innocently picnicking and playing games like “Authors” instead of sexting each other or congregating at the shopping mall.

Last night, we read the chapter in Little Women called “Castles in the Air”, wherein each of the characters describes her dreams for the future.  At the end, I closed the book, and asked Dimples about her castle in the air.  As is usually the case when I ask such illogically sentimental questions of my 9-going-on-10 daughter, she just shrugged and said, “I don’t know.”

“What do you think mine is?” I asked, wondering if she was perceptive enough to realize that, like Jo, I have always wanted to be a published author, and probably wouldn’t mind being rich and famous to boot – with a castle on the beach instead of in the clouds.

“Here.” She waved around the room.  “With me.”

In an instant, a wave swallowed my beach castle, and I said, “You’re right!  As long as I’m with you, I am in my castle.”

“And you’ll always be in mine,” she replied, giving me an unexpected hug and nearly reducing me to tears.

“Christopher Columbus!” I thought, still in Jo March mode.  “This book is actually rubbing off on her!”

Of course, once we get to the part where sweet little Beth dies, she’s going to kick me out of the castle and never let me choose a book again, so I guess I better draw this out as long as I can.

Dimples may be somewhat unsentimental, but she only tolerates novels in which the villains meet untimely deaths.

This is so wrong.

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