And the brat gets the itch to read

The other day we went to a birthday party of a fren who is barely six months older than the brat, but much more 'mature' as the phrase goes. This boy is an avid book reader, and when Mamma, who being the scatty type she is, asked him what he wanted as a birthday present, being the one who had landed up without one in hand and planned to use the time at the mall waiting for the party to get over to pick up said present, replied promptly, "Books". Mamma was delighted. Being a bookaholic herself, and beamed down approvingly at the child. "Which author would you like, do you know the book titles you want?"
Promptly, the birthday boy rattled off, "I want Witches and Matilda by Roald Dahl."
Mamma trotted off to Landmark next door and bought the boy the books he wanted and could not contain her admiration of the same, and voiced said admiration to the brat who when asked what he wanted at any given point could be guaranteed to reply "Beyblade Storm Pegasus."
The brat pondered and pondered and finally declared that he wanted a book too. Make that two books. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Witches. Both by Roald Dahl. Dahl is an author he is familiar with, since he has had Fantastic Mr Fox as part of his curriculum this year, and has googled up Dahl, his childhood pictures and his cottage and even assumed the Norwegian spouse of my aunt, who admittedly bears a striking resemblance to Dahl, was the man himself. Ergo, when he began whining about wanting these two books, Mamma picked up bag and hotfooted it to Crossword and procured said printed copies and placed before him. He flicked through them with zero modicum of interest evident on his brow. And then he put them down and picked up his Beyblades again and began spinning them through the vastness of space and time aka the living room floor, in decimating battles that shake the universe, read bang into the dining table chair legs and leave scratches.
Mamma hopped and yelled and grumbled about his lack of interest in the books purchased and frothed at the mouth for a bit, before Pappa calmed her down, applied ice to her brow and led her away to another part of the house where she could be calm and collect herself. "Let him be," the pater advised sagely, himself having discovered the joys of the printed word only after his head of hair had gone grey.
And so mamma did. Let the books lie on the bedside table without insisting that the brat read them, ignoring the pricks of anger that the brat could be so enriching his mind with the wonderful words of Dahl rather than whooping with joy over two tops dashing against each other for what seemed like almost the entire day.
And when the day's play was done, and the brat returned home, wrung out and exhausted, Mamma went into the kitchen to get him his solid nutrition, and found this when she returned. The brat, sitting crosslegged on the bed, reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. And chuckling to himself. And reading bits and pieces aloud to his pater and yours truly whenever he found anything of interesting, like the pater and I keep doing. And so we sat, parents and child, each reading their book, until our eyes drooped and the lights were switched off, reading in blissful camaraderie.
This morning, in the fresh sunlight, I asked him how he had enjoyed the book. "Is boreding," he declaimed from the vantage point of one having grown up on Japanese manga and anime cartoon serials. "Dere's no fighting, no battles, and only funny peepuls wid orange hair and wurking in a factory. And I don like wat happenz wid d udder childrens. Is not good to do bad things to the childrens even if theyre nod nice childrenz." Has this politically correct generation has outgrown Dahl.