My daughters are two different books. They share much the same content, even very similar plotlines, but how they are written and how I enjoy them differs.
One is stunningly crafted, fascinatingly complex story, and a thrilling challenge to read. I am constantly thinking, learning, growing as a person from the experience. The twists and turns sometimes baffle me, but after they make perfect sense and I am grateful how the best is demanded of me. The pleasure is not only in the story, although the story itself is wonderful, entertaining, engaging, but also in knowing that I am capable of truly understanding such a profund work.
The other is an equally marvelous book, I've only started this one six months ago. It is such a sheer pleasure, absorbing and funny. I don't want to put it down, for each chapter to end. The protaganist is utterly charming, and I can't wait to see what happens next.
But both books are my favorite book. Each child is my favorite child. I'm glad that the first is the challenging read, because I want to learn from her. And I do. She has me thinking on my feet, not because she's any more difficult to deal wtih than my second daughter, but because everything we do together is new to both of us. When she first touched my face, I had never felt my child recognize me. When she struggled with a cold, I never hurt so much from someone else's discomfort. When she went off to kindergarten, I never before feared so much that school could kill a love of learning. These powerful emotions were shockingly novel and so deeply wonderful. With my second, the experience isn't so startling, but since I know what is coming, more or less, I can revel in the experience itself, savoring it like a delicious dessert. And she does feel like dessert, becuase afterwards I'll have to leave the table. (How did I get from a library to a restaurant?)
Book number two is crying. The end.
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