Why I Still Love My Favourite Picture Book

There’s only one picture book that I find myself turning to as an adult because I crave its emotional message.

Don’t mistake me: I love a lot of picture books. I love their charm, their evocativeness, their wit, their simplicity, their complexity. I love some of them for the memories they spark and others for the brilliant artistry that went into them and still others for both.

But Judith Viorst’s Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day (1972) is something special to me.

It’s special because, although I still delight in the wordplay and imagination of Dr. Seuss and the gorgeous imagery of Chris van Allsburg, although Robert Munsch’s zany words still roll off my tongue and everyone knows that red is actually best, they move me in specifically childish ways.*

Although I wouldn’t say I’ve lost the spark of imagination, whimsy, or joy (or, let’s be honest, a healthy chunk of selfish immaturity), I find that the pleasure I take from my old favourites is primarily nostalgic: I feel the way I remember they made me feel, not the way I’d feel interacting with them the first time as an adult. My emotions now are tied to what my emotions were then. Not because of anything the authors did wrong (or right), but because of me and the way I am — I’m sure others have their own experiences with the picture books they love.

Alexander and… is different, for me.

Alexander and… evokes feelings that I had as a kid, yes, but also feelings that I continue to have as an adult.

Perhaps that’s because of its subject matter. Alexander and… tells the story of a little boy who’s generally lucky and privileged — he has a loving family, friends at school, caring teachers, good food to eat, new shoes to wear, a TV to watch, toys to play with. As life goes, his life is pretty great. But even with all this good fortune, it’s still possible for him to have a terrible day.

Sometimes, through pure chance, things don’t go the way he wants them to. Sometimes, it happens to be his turn to draw the short straw. Sometimes, another person, through capriciousness or forgetfulness, doesn’t do what he wants. Sometimes, he brings misfortune on himself through poor judgement, selfishness, or error.

Nothing seems to be going right for Alexander, but the book isn’t about how terrible the world is and what jerks other people are. It’s about Alexander and how the day is making him feel. As readers, even very young readers, we recognize that what Alexander experiences isn’t unjust nor is it entirely other people’s faults. We don’t get angry, as we do when we read about unfairness or sad, as when we read about tragedy.

But we — okay, I — recognize that simmering resentment at a bunch of little things that you already kind of know aren’t big, life-ruining problems or even things worth complaining about.

When I get in low moods, that’s kind of how the world feels to me.

I don’t mean to say that I’m a perfect person who never feels resentment except when I’m having mood issues: of course not. I do get upset when everything seems to be going wrong, and, like Alexander, I don’t always remember to be grateful for the basically wonderful, privileged, fortunate life I lead. Re-reading the book then does help me feel better too.

But when I get in low moods, in the winter, on rainy, dark days, everything feels like Alexander’s terrible day.

As I once explained to my boyfriend, on days when my mood sinks, I feel like entries on that blog where parents give strange reasons why their kid is crying. We laugh at those photos and captions because, as adults, we know that those are silly things to cry about. Sometimes, we make minor mistakes, and sometimes, things don’t turn out exactly as we expect them to. Sometimes, we forget about the consequences of our previous actions or change our minds after seeing what our original choice is like. If we couldn’t cope with little incidents like those with good humour, it would be difficult to function in everyday life.

But on bad days, that’s exactly what I feel like. Why do I feel like crying? Because doing up the zipper on my hoodie doesn’t make it as snug as I expected it to. Because I ate the last banana yesterday and now I want one and I don’t want to have to go to the store. Because I thought I wanted yogurt for breakfast but it turns out I might have wanted eggs more.

Do I know those are silly reasons to feel like crying? Sure! They usually don’t even ping my radar. I even know that those aren’t actually the reasons I feel like crying: I feel like crying because I feel like crying, but the feeling latches on to every reason it can. Including wanting to cry at stupid things like a baby instead of coping like a grown woman.

On days like those, it’s nice to turn to Alexander and…, to cut off that feeling of “Why am I so stupid and useless that I can’t snap out of these petty little hang-ups?”

With Alexander and…, I can travel through someone else’s terrible day, sharing an emotional journey that feels a lot like where I’m at. I can tag along with Alexander as he gripes about each new problem — and survives it. By lunchtime, he’s forgotten he had to ride in the middle at carpool that morning.

I can experience the catharsis as he gives into behaviour I can’t and won’t allow myself — loudly complaining to anyone who will listen, punching someone who pushes his buttons, responding with childish pettiness to resistance from others. I don’t want to do those things, not actually, but it sure feels good to tag along with Alexander as he indulges.

But most of all, what I get from Alexander and… is exactly the feeling it’s so expertly crafted to present: welp, the book says, here is how you feel sometimes. So do other people. It’s not a pleasant or entirely helpful way to feel, but it is what it is. It’s okay sometimes. It’s normal.

And, really, on some low days, that’s what I need to hear most of all: you’re not a stupid whiny baby who can’t make herself appreciate all the really good things in her life and snap out of this zenith. You don’t have to be down on yourself for feeling down, making it even worse. You can just sit with this unpleasant, wanting-to-cry, resentful, everything-sucks feeling without worrying about doing something about it.

Sometimes, some days are like this.

Even in Australia.

* Another unfortunate way you can tell that I am sadly uninvolved with the world of picture books is that most of my favourites are the ones I encountered as a child: mid-20th century works by white, middle-class writers and artists. I’m so glad for the contemporary push to devote fair (not to mention well deserved!) attention and resources to diverse writers and illustrators.