I remember when The Polar Express (the book) first came out. I was in Elementary school, probably 5th grade, maybe earlier. It won the Caldecott Medal Award in 1986, was a New York Times Best Seller as well as Best Illustrated Book of the Year.

It’s the story of a boy who begins to doubt Santa’s existence, boards a magical train to the North Pole, thrilling ride and adventure ensues, meets up with Claus, and reason to believe as well as the power of magic is instilled once again in the heart of the boy.

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My three-year old and I were in the kids’ section of the library the other day. It’s one of our favorite hangouts. There’s a nice little nook by a big picture window that they have furnished with overstuffed chairs, couches and rockers to sit on while you read. They also have the walls carpeted so that felt letters and shapes will cling to them (bins of felt are available for perusal), a magnetic board to put letters and shapes on, and some other toys. My little one loves to play there.

That’s what she was doing the other day, just playing in the kids’ section while I sat on a couch, reading and watching her enjoy herself. Across from us, there was another mother and her daughter. The daughter looked to be just a little older than mine—so, maybe about 4, or at the tops, 5. This child was reading a Step 3 Reader out loud to her mother. She was doing a remarkable job with it, too. I was impressed at first.

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Like many of you, I came of age during the last, gasping heyday of American childhood. This was before youth was hermetically sealed for your protection and the fun safely removed from every last little thing.

Granted, I also came of age during a time when it would seem in retrospect that our parents were actively trying to kill us and make it look like an accident.

If we can get past the monumental “what were they thinking?” safety issues such as the legions of us who grew up riding around in vehicles by standing up on the back seat, sitting in our mother’s laps, or in some cases, lying prone across the rear cargo area of the family station wagon, we must still address the variety of injuries obtained during our leisure time.

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