TinyTuna has fallen victim to yet another family trait. It's not necessarily a bad thing, but it seems to be a somewhat taboo topic. It's never been discussed on Oprah. It's never been diagnosed on Dr. Phil. There are no clinics to cure this addiction.
Hello, my name is GreenTuna. I am bathroom reader.
I always suspected TinyTuna has this genetic mutation. Before she could read she would go in the bathroom, grab something, and look at the pictures. It was the beginning of the end.
But now, oh boy. It's getting to be a fight for the reading room. It doesn't matter if it's Dilbert, Unfortunate Events or last month's Bon Appetit. She's in there, armed with anything she can find, and she's not coming out.
Of course, I am hardly one to talk. Who among us hasn't spent more than a passing moment weighing the potential benefits and risks of "one more chapter" and permanent butt paralysis? And why not read? What else is there to do in the bathroom besides count the tiles on the floor? It's educational multitasking, I tell you.
I've always been a sucker for books, and if there is one thing I have a very, very hard time doing, it's denying my child the opportunity to read. When she comes home with school book club orders nearly ever other week, how can I say no? It's books. It's brain food. Denying your child books is like sentencing them to a life of BooBahs, bad Hanna-Barbara cartoons and a steady diet of Twinkies. I swear to God, it's in the parent handbook -- you just don't do it.
But the problem here isn't a literary one. It's mathematical: Two readers, twenty gajillion books and one bathroom. Something's gotta give. And it's not going to be me. From now on, if she plans on taking root in the reading room, she's going to have to schedule an appointment and take a timer. I gotta go.