I was sitting at the computer last week when I realized that things had gotten quiet. Sierra, happily playing with whatever toy she had found, was silent. It’s clichéd, but it’s true – when your child is quiet, you naturally wonder what has happened.

Yet, all I needed to do was turn around. There Sierra sat, surrounded by a pile of books. Opening each cover. Turning each page. Pointing at each puppy, each duck, each ball, each recognizable item illustrated by each illustrators hand.

Sierra was reading.

Kind of.

And I watched. She was completely enthralled. She’d finish looking at one and grab another. She’d pile them up in a circle around her chair, reach for another, begin again. We have a bottom shelf filled with her books – a discovery she’s always known about but has just begun taking advantage of – and when that was empty, it’s contents dumped in various states around the room, she moved up a shelf, erroneously grabbing Walden, followed by the biography of Edward R. Murrow.

She wasn’t impressed. She turned back to My Two Hands. She had no idea I was staring at her.

Kerrie has noticed this as well. And it seems all so natural. We’re a family of readers by nature. In action, the reading has trailed off, what with our available time used to relax and catch up. But by nature, it’s what we do. Almost by nature, it’s what she’s doing.

So to see this sends me into overdrive. I’m Proud Parent Number One. I’m already planning the next steps.

Ramona Quimby. Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. Where the Red Fern Grows. Harry Potter. And later on, John Steinbeck. Dave Eggers. Or will she turn to Jhumpa Lahiri and Zadie Smith? Will she buck the entire family and latch onto Jane Austin?

When you have a child, you naturally wonder what he or she will grow up to be. Will she be kind? Wily? Quick-tempered? Intelligent? You wonder if he or she will be artistically inclined, or technically motivated. Cars and electronics or books and paints?

And you naturally create your ideal view. Knowing you’ll love her either way. But also knowing how cool it would be to have a friend with similar interests, someone who shares your same desires, someone you can connect with on more than just familial bonds.

I have always believed in acting as a gentle but caring father, who will stand by Sierra without forcing her hand, who will lead without making choices for her. I expect nothing more than for her to do her best. I refuse to get caught up in the typical child rearing competition. And aside from reading books each night, we haven’t influenced this in any way.

I mean, she sure didn’t get it from us, the way we read anymore.

But Sierra is reading. Or, at least, taking the first steps toward reading, by focusing on the books, opening them and studying them and becoming completely lost in them, just as her mother and father do, just as her grandmother has always done, just as everyone before her has mastered.

And it’s amazing.

If you give a daddy a good children’s book, he’s going to want to read it.

When he reads it, he’s going to enjoy it. You should watch out – he’s going to want a computer to type on.

He’ll write and write about how cool the book is. He’ll be so happy with it, he’ll want to show everyone, which means you’ll have to get him a printer.

A new printer never comes with a good ink cartridge, though. So of course you’ll need to go to the store.

When you go to pick up the cartridge, he’s going to want to go with to make sure you get the right one. And naturally, he’s going to want a new box of pens, too.

If you buy him the pens, he’s going to want something to write in. A Moleskin, maybe. So you’ll need to go to Barnes and Noble.

When he finally gets his notebook, he’s going to start writing. Eventually, though, he’ll run out of things to write about.

He’ll think about what he does best.

And then he’s going to ask you for a good children’s book.

(Previously reviewed: 16-Page Read: If You Give a Pig a Party)

I have a favorite book. Kerrie has a favorite book. Chances are, all of us as adults have favorite books, and those favorite books aren’t the same as our favorite books from when we were 15. Or 10. Or five.

We weren’t always in possession of a favorite book though.

Think about it. We weren’t born with a favorite book. Likely, no one remembers their first favorite book.

Regardless, we had one. At sometime during our first year, we grabbed a hold of a book and claimed it as our own, selecting it above all others as “favorite,” and though we may not have cognitively known the importance of our selection, and though we may not have even been conscious of the fact that it was a book at all, it became our favorite.

I bring this up because Sierra now has a favorite book.

All I can do is beam, really. I think it’s so cool – my little girl, enjoying books. It wasn’t that long ago that it seemed like she was done with books, for a while at least. But now, here she is, enjoying books. (Enjoying. Not reading. Reading would actually involve a working knowledge of words an concepts.)

She sits on the floor, grabbing books, ripping them open, making little excited sounds and holding them up to us. She enjoys sitting in our lap and pointing at the pictures. At times, it seems like she “gets” what’s going on. She’s on that precipice, staring over the edge, ready to jump into reading like her parents and her grandparents before her.

So yeah, she enjoys books. But of all the books she has, she especially enjoys Hug by Jez Alborough.

Hug is everything you want a children’s book to be – easy to read, simple, a little emotional, a lot of fun. It follows a baby gorilla – Bobo – in his search for his mother.

I’m not going to lie. This book can be heartbreaking. It tugs on all of my parental heartstrings. After all, Bobo has lost his mother, his safety net, his giver of hugs. And as he sees each pair of animals, he is reminded of that loss – what begins as a happy recognition becomes a sad tale of remembrance, a sadness that can only be cured by a hug of his own.

Bobo views each hug (performed by a continuing cast of jungle animals) with growing panic until, finally, in a flood of tears, he cries out for a hug of his own. His mother arrives, everyone hugs, then everyone hugs again, then everyone hugs in an inter-species group hug, and everything ends happily.

So you’ve got diversity. You’ve got real feelings. Best of all, you’ve only got three words (“hug,” “Mommy,” and “Bobo.”)

More than that, you’ve got a book that manages to affect us as parents, the idea of our children being lost without us, searching for nothing more than a hug. The only thing I can ever think of doing after reading Hug is to reach down, give Sierra a hug of her own, and start again. We’ll read it two or three times through, and a hug is given at the culmination of each reading.

Maybe that’s why it’s her favorite. And maybe that’s why, after 11 months of reading children’s books, it’s quickly becoming one of mine.

It’s come to my attention that Sierra no longer wants to read books.

I should take that back. She’s never really wanted to read books. She’s instead sat idly by while I showed her pictures and read through the words, flipping pages for her and explaining the finer points of Where the Wild Things Are far before she could even comprehend what a book was in the first place.

As she’s grown older, she’s taken a liking to the book themselves – not the pages or the words or the pictures, but the solid item of matter that a book is. It’s a piece to chew on, a physical creation to pick up and hold and turn around and – especially – drop on the floor.

Sierra read books with me because she was a captive audience. The books were more for my enjoyment, serving more as a promise of things to come than a cognitive memory.

Now, she’s active. Sitting in Dad’s lap is fun for about two minutes. She likes her books to be fuzzy, soft, chewable and, most of all, quickly read.

This leaves us small chunky books, books with flaps and other movable parts, plush books that double as teething rings and books that simulate animal fur. More Sandra Boynton, less Mo Willems.

I’ve come to accept this. I still try, and she’s becoming more and more tolerant. She enjoys helping me turn the page, and if she’s in a good mood we can often read the book a second time (but never a third – don’t even dare). Of course, there are still some books that are better left for the future.

Green Eggs and Ham, for instance.

Listen, I love Dr. Seuss to death. But his books aren’t exactly the most colorful batch on the bookshelf. They’re often tri-colored with awkward looking characters and even more awkward situations. They’re weird, to say the least, in a way that a two or three-year-old would enjoy, but a nine-month old would ditch in favor of something that squeaks. They don’t translate well to the pre-year crowd, is all I’m saying.

But hey – that’s okay. When I attempt to read it to Sierra (never making it past the page introducing the box and the fox) I really read it for myself, to relive my own childhood, to revel in the words and the rhymes, the lines that I remember from longer ago than any other book I can think of. It was my first love – one that led me to purchase the cartoon retelling of Green Eggs and Ham on VHS from Best Buy knowing full well I’d never watch it and one that led me to choose it as the perfect children’s book to read during Speech class in high school.

And here’s the funny thing: it’s taken me this long to realize that Dr. Seuss’s most famous book is actually an ode to trying new things.

Yeah. I know. Pretty obvious. But I’ve always seen this book from the anti-egg/ham character’s point of view. No, I don’t want those damned sickly green-colored foodstuffs – I want a normal plate of ham and eggs and I would rather they’ve not been in anyone else’s house or next to a filthy fox. But that’s not it at all. What we’re looking at is a classic tale of “just one bite, I guarantee you’ll like it.”

It reminds me of this scene in a Calvin and Hobbes comic, where Calvin will absolutely not eat any tortellini; he absolutely hates it and refuses to even touch it if his mother cooks it. The next image, after a pregnant pause, is Calvin looking up the word tortellini in the dictionary, proving his fear of the unknown – an aversion to anything new, regardless of whether or not he knows what it is.

The moral in Green Eggs and Ham is simple. Try things once. You never know if you’ll like it if you don’t try it. And if it just so happens you absolutely hate it, then at least you’ll know firsthand.

How about that? It’s only taken me 25 years. But I’ve finally found a moral in a Dr. Seuss book.

Sierra would be so proud of her dad. That is, if she’d stop chewing on the corner of the book and listen to me.