This morning, my eight-year old daughter asked me if she could have a Kindle --
"Like you Mom."
"Well, how about we see if you like using mine first. I'll download a book for you. What would you like?"
She dug around in her backpack then produced a paper-back chapter book (published by Disney!) about Tinker Bell's adventures - you know - beyond the Peter Pan years. (For those fans who want to know what she's been up to since Neverland.)
"Ahem . . . that's nice dear. How about A Tale of Despereaux? Caddie Woodlawn? Little House in the Big Woods? Something with a gold sticker on the front cover, OK?"
I once made a snide remark to my younger sister when we were kids. I had implied that she never read anything and she said that yes, she did too read.
I mumbled under my breath: "Yeah -- Junior Book of the Month!"
This remark it hurt her feelings for a long time. She still brings it up occasionally - half in jest.
As I thought about this, something occurred to me: my sister has hundreds of friends on Facebook. She meets up with these people, they go on cruises and stuff.
I read; I blog; I play Scrabble with my husband.
I can't expect my daughter to be a little clone of me. Although I really want her to plumb the depths of literature the way I like to, she's not a worm. She's a butterfly. A real social butterfly. She makes me get out of the house. She makes me have company over.
My friends are books; her friends are people.
What are you -- bookworm or butterfly?