There Is a House

There is a book, The Napping House. I knew nothing of it, but my mother-in-law recognized it instantly on Skype: a beloved classic. I confess I only chose it at the library because its big board pages were large enough to lay open on the floor as Ella flipped through. The pictures did nothing for me on first glance, and I didn't even read the story. Happy accident.

A week later, I could recite it to you blindfold. It is one of those woman-who-ate-a-fly tales, though here, the culprit is a flea that bites. "A wakeful flea, who bites the cat, who scares the dog, who wakes the child . . . " Before that, the pages add up: first a sleeping grandma on a cozy bed. (Why that didn't hook me first thing, I cannot say.) Then a sleeping child on a snoring grandma. Then a snoozing dog on a sleeping child on a snoring grandma . . . You get the picture. Once the flea bites, though, they all unstack one by one. The scared mouse! The clawed cat! The flailing child! Each gets his own startled page.

I had read the book through to Ella several times already when we flipped to the part with the cat in the air, eyes bulging, paws extended, fur electrified. All of a sudden, Ella put up her arms and shrieked! Now it's her new thing. She waits patiently as the characters stack themselves in sleep, and then the flea bites - and the arms go up and the shrieking ensues. We have moved into the realm of parroting, and we don't just copy Mom and Dad in this house. No, no. There is a house (a napping house!) where children copy books. I'm so happy to live in it.

Ella's asleep now, and I am, as usual this time of year, cozied up with my (dying) laptop under the guest bed covers. The floorboard heater vibrates and clicks. The desktop on the chillier end of the room makes intermittent scritchy noises as it, too, falls asleep. But here and now I'll wake up to my own happy imagination, with the helps of books, yes, and chai tea. I love this part of the day. I'd lift up my hands and shriek, but I don't want to wake the baby.

In the book, the images start dim and blue-grey, and then they lighten, first imperceptibly, then yellower and bolder as each character is roused. by the final, wakeful pages - child, dog, cat, grandmother flying happily through the air - the light streaming through the bedroom window is sunny as can be. Today, on this second in a string of rainy, disappointingly warmish winter days, Ella flipped to those end pages, and right at that moment - I swear - the sun shone through our attic room windows. She shrieked, the room lightened. Quite the moment.

Now, writing under a duvet, a bedspread, a blanket, and sheets, the sky outside is grey again, the wind buffets, and the temperature drops. It's one of those days with a downward arrow on the weather channel icon. I can't complain. I won't. The sunny morning was for Ella. This chilly grey hour is for me, and for words, and for looking into books with my own quiet, melancholy kind of happiness. I do a delighted little shriek inside.

(And, of course, I recommend The Napping House, by Audrey Wood. Even if you don't have children, there's sheer joy bouncing around the room on the second to last page that can't be beat.)