Eric Carle wrote and illustrated a wonderful book called The Very Lonely Firefly.

During the course of the story, the titular blinky bug flies around looking for someone like himself and finds instead things like flashlights and lanterns and other illuminated objects. Poor, lonely firefly. But finally, he finds an entire night sky-load of other fireflies. Woo-hoo, happy firefly!! The End. (The point being, I suppose, "Be Yourself. And eventually you, too, will find others with asses aglow.")

On the final two pages of this book the little illustrated bugs actually LIGHT UP! With real (albeit tiny) light bulbs. How neat! Santa sure knew what he was doin' when he brought this book for our six year old this past Christmas. Our oldest boy loves reading (having just recently learned to do so with moderate proficiency) and he loves anything that lights up. And here we have a book full of simple words he can read that also happens to blink and twinkle. Most excellent.

However the big guy in the red suit failed to remember another trait our six year old processes. An engineering mind. The curious type.

On a cold February morning, I came downstairs to find the detritus of Mr. Carle's picture book spread across the kitchen table. The book eviscerated and the firefly lights gone. And, as is the nature of such things, the six year old was not in sight. But I know his work when I see it.

I found him upstairs in the hall closet. He had removed the lighting system from the back page of the book. He was in the closet because of its relative darkness and he was hard at work trying to reconfigure the on/off switch. He admitted all of this to me without a shred of remorse. My inner bibliophile sighed and tried not to cry.

"C'mon out and let's have a talk about how we treat books around here, son."

And so we talked. Well, I talked and he nodded his head and pretended to listen. (So like his father in many respects.) I explained to him how books are our friends. How we are kind to them. How it must have taken Santa's elves an awfully long time to put that book together in the ol' workshop. And then I pulled out what I figured to be my persuasive parental piece de resistance. I told him I hoped Santa wouldn't see the book he had destroyed because if Santa did see the destruction he would probably think twice before bringing another present like that for Christmas. Which of course would be most unfortunate, because reading is fun. Blah. Blah. Blah.

He blinked slowly at me and I could hear the thought rattling around in his brain like a thumb tack in an empty soup can.

"But how could I figure out how the lights worked without taking them out?"

Some days you just have to admit defeat and move on. Or in this case, you glue the book back together, re-shelve it, and pour a glass of wine.