The first time I read aloud I held my firstborn son in one arm and the book in the other. We started with kiddie books, with spines the size of a dictionary and at most a handful of words per illustrated page. Together, we slowly moved up the literary food chain passing from “Goodnight Moon” to “Green Eggs and Ham” and beyond.
As they got old enough to handle fewer pictures and more words, I looked around for something suitable. A friend told me about a particular book with a cumbersome name, “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone,” so I bought it and took a chance.