My mom read to me a lot when I was a kid. In fact, she read to me when I was older, too-- if I asked her to. She was sensitive to my need to feel mature, so she never pushed. But I could tell when I asked her to read to me that she was so flattered. She loved reading to us. I think that's really a big part of why I loved it.
When I was about 7 or so, my mom read "Mr. Popper's Penguins" to Maddie and me. It is one of the first chapter books I remember her reading to us. We laughed at the silliness of it, and I enjoyed the story largely because penguins were one of my most favorite animals ever in the world. :)
One evening, when my mom seemed to be in an especially laughy mood, I sensed that I might get away with a little "naughtiness." So I confided to her that nearly every time I read the title of the book, I misread it as:
MR. POOPER'S PENGUINS.
And my mom laughed and laughed. She would stop laughing for a moment, but then as soon as she was about to read again, she'd laugh and say to herself "Mr. Pooper" and we'd have to wait while she gathered her wits. I loved it. I felt so happy that I had made her laugh. I personally thought it was hilarious, so I was really flattered to discover that she thought so too.
I remember enjoying the book. But all the delightful parts of how Mrs. Popper wore gloves to play the piano and Mr. Popper turned his basement into a fridge-land pale in comparison to my memory of making my mom laugh.