Although my seven-year-old wonders worship the ground upon which worms slither, I never envisioned the possibility they might actually become worms—bookworms, more specifically. Granted, my heathens still routinely climb trees, dig in the dirt and festoon our hapless dog with lipstick; but I’d surmise they’ve spent nearly as much time with the likes of Roald Dahl, Barbara Park, Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume this summer—devouring their works as if each word were laced with licorice and coated with caramel.

Okay—maybe rainbow sprinkles and S’mores are more their speed. Nevertheless, I am astonished by the recent turn of events as it relates directly to my children’s obsession with and addiction to reading. Quite frankly, I am baffled by the power said literary entities apparently have over them. It’s as if my kids are under some sort of twisted spell from the moment they crack open a book and disappear into its pages—totally disconnected from the world. All that remains is a stoic shell with grass-stained knees, a smattering of Band-Aids and a glassy-eyed gaze that states the obvious: Out to Lunch. Seemingly nothing else on the planet matters except for the narrative unfolding before them.

If only they could be so engaged while pouring milk!

Now and again, bursts of chortles and animated nonsense erupt from behind those well-worn paperbacks—intended for no one, broadcast to everyone, making me insane with curiosity and envious of those in the know. Once in a great while someone will tap me for the meaning or pronunciation of a word. Naturally, I oblige, but aside from that I have virtually no function—except maybe to keep the damn bookshelves well stocked.

For whatever reason (their teachers’ ability to instill a passion for reading so great it’s inconceivable, the motivating force of the Summer Reading Programs orchestrated by the James V. Brown Library and the Crosscutters Baseball Organization or the bevy of simply scrumptious titles available at area bookstores, Borders and Otto’s chief among them), my charges have been hopelessly smitten with all-that-is-bookish this summer.

And that’s a good thing. I think. For a time, anyway, the din subsides and the circus all but leaves town, affording me the opportunity to reclaim my sanity. Mom probably relished much the same as I trekked off into the woods, The Secret Garden or something Mark Twain-ish firmly tucked under an arm. Although, truly, it drives me berserk to try and communicate with creatures so consumed by a piece of literature it’s obscene. Needless to say, in those instances I feel the compelling urge to shriek, “Snap out of it, you little dweebs! Don’t you know there are cats to torment and mud pies to bake?!” I could tell them their hair was on fire and they wouldn’t care. That ponies await them in the yard. That baths would be banished forevermore and pillow fights would reign supreme if only they would humor me by mouthing a response to any one of my infinitely insignificant (read: silly ass) questions.

Still, I get nothing. Nothing that even remotely resembles a suitable reply. Instead, I am shushed, and scolded and ordered back into the hole from whence I came. “Mom, can’t you see I’m trying to READ?! I can’t concentrate with all that talking you’re doing.” By all accounts, I have become an annoyance to my children. I’m the mosquito in their ear. The rain on their parade. The pebble in their beloved Crocs. The pit in their peach. All the same, they ignore my incessant yammerings—or retreat to a more secluded location.

To date, I’ve found my unlikely scholars poring over books while perched atop the coffee table, buried beneath their covers, hunched under the kitchen table, holed up in the bathroom, planted under an oak tree and sprawled out on the living room floor. They’ve also been known to crawl inside the dog’s crate (to read to him, of course), to savor chapter upon chapter while being taxied hither and yon and to whine about being deprived of a gripping novel while parked in a public restroom.

It’s true.

Upon hearing, “Sheez, I wish I had a book, Mom,” drift over the bathroom stall at Rivals recently, I thanked God no one else was there to witness such a mortifying disclosure—unless that someone happened to be a librarian. He or she, no doubt, would have cheered the notion and praised me for instilling within my child the burning desire to read—even while camped on the loo.

So maybe I have made significant strides in nurturing a love of books, never mind that it smacks of weirdness and flies in the face of convention. That being said, perhaps the most rewarding byproduct of the whole affair has been the wealth of conversations we’ve shared in the wake of impassioned page flipping—conversations sparked by clever plots, vivid characters and a common fascination with the telling of tales. Something I’ve longed for as a parent and have finally realized.

Then again, digging in the dirt with the crew is loads of fun, too—worms or no worms.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel