Another Day Another Blow Job (or My First True Love)

From 2002:

Dear Diary,
Another day... another blowjob...

Oops!!! Sorry, just having a Go Ask Alice kind of moment. I would like to sincerely thank Mrs. Braithwaite, my fifth grade librarian, for recommending the book that indelibly etched those words into my psyche, and marked my transition from the Children's to the Young Adult's section at the local library. I would also like to thank my mother for patiently explaining, in words a fifth grader could understand, what exactly a "blow job" was. Two things I will always remember: 1) My Mom always answered my questions about sex without becoming embarrassed or angry, and 2)A "blow job" sounded like the most disgusting thing ever invented by a human being, and I was NEVER going to participate in such a degrading activity (yeah, right!)

For some reason, I was thinking about that book on my way to work this morning. I was remembering the people in my life who encouraged my adoration of the written word. Mr. Siegel, my second grade teacher, always read to the class, and set aside class time for "independent reading." Mrs. Braithwaite, the above mentioned elementary school librarian, invented a special award which she presented to me at my "moving up" ceremony. It was a maple plaque with a brass plate reading "Super Reader", and I was the first and only recipient. My mother, always my staunchest supporter, who trekked to the library with me every week and allowed me to choose whichever books piqued my interest. And last but not least, the children's librarian at the public library, whose name, for the moment, I cannot recall, who instituted the Summer Reading Program, in which teen volunteers listened to children describe books they read each week, and helped them pick out trinkets and stickers for each tome completed.

Anyway, I was reminiscing about my days spend curled up with a good book on my way to work this morning. I was one of those oddball children who would repose on a tree stump, engrossed in my newest discovery from Judy Blume, rather than playing hide and seek with the others. I used to beg my parents to allow me to stay up late, not to partake of the latest drivel offered by network television, but to finish the chapter I was working on in my Harriet the Spy novel. I am thoroughly convinced that the reason I wear glasses to this day is because of the reading by the light of a nightlight that I did as I child.

I hope that my children develop the love for the written word that I did. I refuse to force my interests upon them, but I will try to sway their opinion of reading by providing an environment that encourages them to lose themselves in the pages of a good book. I will purchase books for them that reflect their hobbies and interests, and make them available for their perusal. My cousin was reading by the time he was in preschool, not because his parents forced him to study phonics or learn his alphabet at six months, but rather because they constantly read him his favorite books, allowing him to follow along with the words as they verbalized them.

All I know is that as a child, books provided an alternate world for me. Books did not care about my weight. Books did not call me four eyes. Books did not care if I was afraid to catch a ball. Books were my first love, and it has developed into a life long affair.