I have been reading to my son at bedtime ever since his vocabulary was limited to projectile spit bubbles. Many parents remember their child’s first words, but I remember Bryson’s first letter. It was B, and it was messy.

His favorite book, the one that had him rocking in his crib, was Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?, an underrated Dr. Seuss classic, likely because it was really annoying for anyone old enough to have successfully completed potty training.

But 2-year-old Bryson loved it, giving the book two spit-bubbles up, a perfect score on the drool scale. He would laugh and giggle so hard he would lose half his body weight in saliva. There were times I thought I should hook him to an IV drip because sure he must be dehydrated after losing enough water to fill a wading pool. But he seemed quite content floating in his warm self-generated pool, so I let him be.

Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You? isn’t so much a story as it is a series of sound effects. Apparently this Mr. Brown had the kind of oral skills that kept Mrs. Brown quite happy. Not only could Mr. Brown moo, he could mimic a train, a sizzling strip of bacon and a butterfly kiss. He also did excellent impersonations of rain, a bell and breaking wind. Wait, that last one, if I remember correctly, was me. It was always a huge hit and I pretended it was in the book so as not to spoil the mood.

No matter how many books I might hold up to Bryson when it was bedtime, he would invariably indicate his preference for Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?, usually by blowing a spit bubble its way. And it was the perfect tome for his primitive mind as it struggled to link sounds (my voice) to meaningful information (“Who is this Mr. Brown, and why does he think his ability to moo is an appreciable skill?”) So as I related this fascinating tale to the point where I really no longer needed the book to guide me, Bryson lay there smiling and drooling, perhaps much like Roger Ebert looks while in the middle of a four-star film.

Being a published author (OK, a journalist, but Reader’s Digest has picked up, edited, stripped down and made totally meaningless two of my articles in the last 12 years), I wanted to stress the importance of reading to my son. Because reading is good, as any teacher, politician or volunteering do-gooder of the Literacy Foundation will tell you. It’s good because studies have shown that thanks to the ability to read, you will know such valuable things as how the right lane is ending up ahead, allowing you to speed up and pass as many motorists as you can before cutting over at the last second. And this is proof alone that many people know how to read.

But I wanted my son to know more than, when driving by a 7-Eleven, all Slurpees are on sale for 99 cents regardless of size. I wanted him to develop an appreciation for literature and therefore not be condemned to a life of John Grisham, Tom Clancy of Robert James Waller. Eeewwww, Robert James Waller. I planned on a natural progression. We’d start with a dose of old Dr. Seuss, whose zoolches and wimshaws would improve is Bryson’s floose. Or something like that. Then we’d move onto a little William Steig and then perhaps onto Shel Silverstein. After a while he’d be ready for the sports books of Matt Christopher and other chapter books (while I would find a way to divert his attention for R.L. Stine, the juvenile equivalent of Robert James Waller. Eeewwww, Robert James Waller). Then it was on to Roald Dahl, and for fun perhaps a little Lemony Snicket or J.K. Rowling. By that time he’d be in high school and no longer my concern,

No, I kid. But really, by high school I was hoping he would quickly finish his homework so he could get back to the John Steinbeck novel he ordered online from the little-known literature section on Amazon.

That was the dream. Reality has a way of screwing up the best of intentions, explaining what I like to call Bryson’s dark period, when he was 8 and insisted that I read to him several R.L. Stine books (eeewwww, Robert James Waller. No, that doesn’t really belong here, but you really can’t say that enough). I know that when I am my deathbed, my only son by my side, I am going to look into his eyes, eyes that will say, “On one hand I will miss my dad, but on the other hand I hope probate goes quickly,” I will reach up to him with whatever limb still works, I will take him by the throat and say, “You owe me that time wasted reading R.L. Stine, and it’s time to pay up with interest!”

Fortunately the Stine period passed and Bryson reached a point to where I could actually threaten him with the possibility that I would not read to him that night. “Get into your pajamas now or no book at bedtime!” “Get this room cleaned or no book at bedtime!” “If you even for a second consider going to Arizona State University, no book at bedtime!”

And it worked. Until I completely, utterly and inexorably screwed it up.

Being the indulgent father that I am, one that thinks nothing or attempting to purchase my son’s love, I purchased for him this Christmas … wait, to help you understand something. Bryson wanted something called a Juice Box and, from the way he described it, I knew I would not be fortunate to get away with something from Welch’s. Apparently this particular Juice Box depended upon proprietary technology to play cartoons and videos. Plug in a cartridge and you could watch, on a two-inch screen, a 30-minute episode of whatever was deemed entertainment by the Juice Box Committee on Just Give Them the Hardware Because We Are Totally Going to Hose Them on the Software. After doing a little research, I found that while the $69.99 Juice Box wasn’t inordinately expensive, each of the cartridges sold for $17. For 30 minutes of programming. That’s even more than HBO charges for its ultimate package of 37 channels, including the one that only Emmy voters get (with James Gandolfini promising Soprano swag for every vote).

So then it hit me – Eeewwww, Robert James Waller (does that ever get old?). In the long run, the Juice Box was going to cost me his first two years at college (“Bryson, check out this brochure from The Learnin’ Hut, that’s the admissions trailer on the cover”). But what if I spent a little extra money (remember, I’m buying his love here) on a personal DVD player? It went for three times as much, but it came with a fully stocked library of DVDs that we already owned. Besides, this was a kid who had no problem watching Max Keeble’s Big Movie 23 times. Am I really concerned about meeting all his entertainment needs?

And thus the decision was made. A personal DVD player would be his. If this couldn’t buy his love, than nothing could, except maybe telling him every now and then how much he meant to me, how proud I was of him and how I would always be there for him. Nah, he’d never buy. I’m sticking with the DVD player.

It went over very well, based on his “Oh man! Woo hoo! This is so totally awesome! Look! A DVD player! Dad, I love you so much!”

See?

The parent-of-the-year feeling dissolved that night. As Bryson climbed into bed and I reached for the Lemony Snicket book that we were more than halfway through, my son looked at me and said, “Can I watch a Simpsons DVD instead?”

More than seven years of literary training had dissolved in seconds. The DVD had supplanted the book faster than you can say, “But you love me, right?”

It could have been worse. He could have asked to see Bridges Over Madison County, a film based on the book by, eeewwww ...