H

aving children has taught me some things about myself I never would have learned otherwise. For example, it was six Christmases ago when I discovered my love for the now-ubiquitous genre of ‘Find It’ books.

Roy and I had tucked ourselves under the covers to leaf through one of the books we’d gotten him, a Walter Wick collection of themed images into which specific, disparate objects have been hidden for the sole purpose of our ferreting them out. It was snuggly up in the bed with my little boy, but I considered taking a couple of Advil prophylactically before cracking open his new book with him; just looking at the cover made me wrinkle up my nose.

I do not like puzzles. Word searches and anagrams and the like make the back of my eyes throb unpleasantly. Why would I look for a button with a tiny blue anchor on it that’s been buried in about 342 other buttons? What on earth would be the point?

We devoured the book that day—we tried to eat it whole, in one sitting, but I managed to negotiate an early stopping point, the better to savor the last few pages later. My headache never materialized. And I learned that the point of our shared exercise was the simple joy of discovery available to both of us when something ‘lost’ was found through our shared searching.

Roy and Peaches have been assembling a ‘Find it’ book of their own over the last few weeks. I’ll leave it to you to discern who has been responsible for the lion’s share of the creative direction of their co-production but I will assist you in finding the cat on these few pages. Finding a cat on Mars can be much harder than you’d think.