If you are the book fanatic parent of an infant obsessing at the probable illiterate future of your child since the child is not particularly interested in all the baby books you've bought it, take heart. One day, this too shall pass.
I had this vision of myself -- right next to the softly toned image of myself as a gracious, eternally patient awesome cook of a mother -- sitting with my baby son on my lap, bringing his storybooks to life for him, telling him stories heartened by his soft chuckles and delighting in his picking out favourites. I certainly did not imagine a child who only picked up a book to bite it or tear it to bits. That however is what I got. (To be fair, I got a Bhablet. Perhaps you did not.)
So I sat and agonised over the future. It looked very bleak. I pictured an aged Sue, sitting in her room while her son told his friends things like, "Hey have you heard this really cool band, they're quite old and nobody appreciates them now but they're uncut diamonds I tell you, these Backstreet Boys!" And how all the shelves in his room would have crap Goth stuff and the only books in it would be stupid magazines that told him how to cure his zits.
And then one day, I got a life and stopped thinking these thoughts and basically, forgot all about it.
And then another day, many months later, my son came up to me and urgently pointed at the book cupboard and said, "Babu, peesh? Babu, boita, peesh?" When his delighted mother immediately offered him his choice of 'boita' ("the book") he brought down half a dozen and proceeded to read them the rest of the day.
To paraphrase my mother, good things happen to Sues who wait.