First Literary Experience

When I asked my mom about my first literary experience, I was told that as a toddler, The Hungry Caterpillar was my absolute favorite. Given my lack of any and all recollection of this book as a child, I have chosen to discuss the first book I actually remember reading.

Audrey Penn's The Kissing Hand was my ever-reliable "comfort blanket." Being the daughter who never really cut-the-cord with my mother, it was difficult for me to go to pre-school, knowing that we would be apart. One day, my mom and I read this tale together, and I instantly connected with the main character, Chester Raccoon.

Afraid to explore the world on his own, Chester's mom kisses the palm of his hand, so that he always has her love with him. When Chester feels lonely, he simply puts the palm of his hand up to his cheek, and feels the warmth of his mother's love.

The ultimate climax of this story was Chester's first day of kindergarten. The idea of meeting all new people in a completely new environment is understandably frightening, which allowed me to connect with Chester even more. Considering Chester's fear toward the first day of kindergarten, The Kissing Hand made me much more optimistic about my school experience.

This book represents one of the many small gestures that my mom does that lets me know how much she really loves me. Completely surprising me, remembering some minute detail from a few weeks ago when I thought nobody was listening. Taking the time to drop everything and simply ask how I'm doing, or how my day went. Or, stopping at the book store after a long day of work to find just the right remedy for my pre-school jitters. I know that she loves me.

Although I had to do some research to remember this book, what stayed with me all this time is the closeness to my mommy, and the comfort I developed while venturing the world on my own, just like Chester. When I hold my hand up to "feel my mother's warmth," I am able to see not only the young woman that I have become, but the little girl that I was so long ago. (Or so it feels.) Every crease in my palm is a crease of her own, every burden is a burden that she carries, and every laugh is a laugh we share together. I wish there was a way to thank her for all that she has done and continues to do for me but nothing I could do would truly suffice. For now, and for always, I will just love her back.