“Mom, these all have to go,” my preteen daughter announced, gesturing toward the towering pile of picture books scattered across her bedroom floor. I glanced at her bookcase, noting that three of its four shelves were already empty.
“I’m making space for my new books,” she continued.
This heap represented just a fraction of the picture books we once cherished together, the beloved titles that had survived multiple rounds of decluttering. They were the last remnants of our collection, now residing in my daughter’s room because she was the youngest. But now, their era was coming to a close. Out went “Room on the Broom,” “Days with Frog and Toad,” and “The Paper Bag Princess.” In their place arrived the Hunger Games series and “A Court of Thorns and Roses.”
As I stared at the pile, I struggled to determine what to do with the displaced books. Could I justify keeping them in my own room?
This marked the definitive end of our picture book chapter, and I was taken aback by the sense of loss I felt. I usually manage to part with outgrown clothing or toys without being weighed down by nostalgia. I treasure the memories of those early childhood days, but I wouldn’t want to relive them. I appreciate the independence that comes with having teens. I enjoy exploring the world alongside them, rather than merely explaining it. I love participating in TikTok dances instead of guiding them through “Wheels on the Bus.”
Yet, seeing those discarded books stirred something deep within me.
So much enchantment was contained within that mess on the floor. Fairies, wizards, and fantastical creatures filled the pages. The whimsical realities depicted in the works of Dr. Seuss and Mo Willems made perfect sense when shared with a small child. Julia Donaldson’s delightful rhymes were like a melody that propelled my voice. Each of those books had a special charm that kept them in regular rotation for years—”The Pocket Dogs,” “Harry’s Home,” “Plum Tree Cottage.”
But it wasn’t just their artistic value that made it hard to let go.
Once upon a time, when the kids were little and life felt endless, picture books were my lifeline. We often hear about the benefits of reading for children, but not enough about how therapeutic it can be for parents. Looking back, those books were like a form of therapy for me.
A mouse went strolling through the deep dark wood/He saw a nut, and the nut was good. (“The Gruffalo,” by Julia Donaldson)
Therapists often recommend guided imagery exercises to transport oneself to a calmer mental space. Picture books do this even better. Reading aloud with my kids was like stepping into a mini universe. With “The Gruffalo,” we entered the tranquil woods, inhaling the cool air between the trees. By page two, our chaotic world—filled with toy clutter, spilled snacks, and unwashed dishes—was far behind us.
Winnie lived in her black house with her cat, Wilbur. He was black too. And that is how the trouble began. (“Winnie the Witch,” by Korky Paul and Valerie Thomas)
Therapists teach us mindfulness, to live fully in the moment. Anyone who has walked with a toddler knows that mindfulness comes naturally to them, stopping to notice everything. Illustrators of picture books understand this too; their detailed images invite repeated exploration. Each reading revealed new nuances in Winnie the Witch’s world—the tiny lizard on the wall, the jet-black toilet—each time we revisited her story, we discovered something new.
Then I dreamed I was sleeping on billowy billows/Of soft-silk and satin marshmallow-stuffed pillows. (“I Had Trouble in Getting to Solla Sollew,” Dr. Seuss)
Therapists advocate for self-care, and curling up with a book and a few warm kids was as close as I got to a spa day during those hectic times. We would snuggle together, the kids’ exuberance paused. One would burrow into my lap, another would lean against me, a tiny head nestled into my shoulder, creating a comforting space. As I read, the words warmed over their fuzzy heads, and I always kept a stack of books within reach to prolong our cozy moments.
You’re not awake/it’s six o’clock. You hear a ring, you hear knock-knock. (“The Birthday Monsters,” by Sandra Boynton)
Therapists suggest being gentle with yourself, and the beauty of picture books for a weary parent is that the authors have already done the heavy lifting. On days when I felt like a zombie after sleepless nights with my restless sleepers, I lacked the energy for imaginative play. Yet reading aloud provided a direct line from my eyes to my mouth, bypassing my exhausted brain. I’m certain I read some stories while half-asleep.
People often praised me for reading to my kids so frequently, but here’s my truth: if all that reading was truly for them, like trying to make them eat veggies or practice the violin, I wouldn’t have done nearly so much. Honestly, I was doing it for myself.
And so, I’m holding onto our favorite books as an emergency supply of sanity, in case I ever find myself caring for little ones again.
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In summary, letting go of my children’s picture books was an emotional journey. While I cherish the memories of those magical stories, I also embrace the independence of my growing teens. The picture books served as both a lifeline and a source of joy during their early years, and I’ll always hold a special place for them in my heart.