Last weekend, I was feeling inspired and decided to clean my room. I began by organizing these huge bins of books and pencils I had stuffed in my dressers. The bin was really heavy, maybe 20 pounds. I could barely lift it two feet to the ground.
Books of different thickness and size peeked out, along with random colored pencils and pouches stuffed between. I even saw a few beads from bracelets I’d made. What caught my eye the most was the thin picture books that were fitted in between two hardcovers.
I tried not to rip the paper as I pulled them out; they were so frayed that one wrong move could dislocate a page from its story. The one on the top of the pile read “Corduroy’s Christmas Surprise.” It lost its cover years ago. The book was in the worst condition of the group but still one of my favorites.
I read about Corduroy decorating his house for Christmas, writing his list and going caroling with Mouse, Rabbit and Puppy. The reds, golds, greens and browns gave the story a warm, cozy hue. It got me in the Christmas spirit five months too early.
Next was “The Berenstain Bears: Meet Santa Bear.” I traveled to Bear Country as I read about Mamma Bear and Papa Bear helping their cubs write their Christmas lists. I’ve always been in awe of their tree house; it was so big and beautiful and cozy-looking.
I also read through “Dora’s Starry Christmas” and “The Night Before First Grade,” remembering how many times I'd flipped through these pages as a kid. For a few minutes, I’d be Dora helping Santa deliver presents, or I’d be Penny on her first day of first grade.
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My favorite of them all was at the bottom of the stack: “The Littlest Pumpkin.” There were marker and pen scribbles on random pages; a couple were torn slightly.
And like every other time I’d read this book, I got sad when the littlest pumpkin wasn’t bought, left alone at the pumpkin stand on Halloween night. And I felt happy and sentimental when the mice adopted the pumpkin and carved her into a jack-o-lantern for their Halloween party. Her dream had come true after all.
Even though each book was so simple and straightforward, they were not boring to me. In fact, as a 19-year-old, I found them extremely entertaining to read. It was as if I were seven again.
It was refreshing, relaxing even, to read some of my all-time favorite picture books. I genuinely enjoyed flipping through them, however childish they may be. It made me wish picture books were the universal book type. No pages and pages of tiny words, but more pictures. Pictures to illustrate the story and liven things up.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized how much of an inner child I still had in me. Having any ounce of an inner child is okay. Even though I am a 19-year-old college student, it’s okay to read picture books and get lost in fictional, childish worlds for a bit. It's okay to have fun doing things you did as a child. It reminds you to revisit memories. It keeps you from forgetting who you were as a kid and shows what has stayed with you after all these years.
Embrace your inner child.
Isabella Vesperini (she/her) is a sophomore majoring in journalism and minoring in Italian.
