The boy loves books. He loves to read them, he loves to throw them up in the air by the handful, he loves to tear out their pages and the cleverly designed flaps which when opened reveal secret pictures and were thought so educational by his parents and other well-meaning gift givers. He also loves to sit on them.
Not that there's anything wrong with that. I enjoy as much as the next guy parking my buttocks on a mystery novel or a treatise on global warming or two. But he takes it to the extreme.