Reading

It’s the simple things of parenting that make my heart sing.

My youngest read a book in an afternoon. She’s 5. It was a 66 page chapter book. I remember the fervor. I remember falling in love. Discovering. Escaping. I remember what it was like when the whole world lay before me in the pages of a book. When the library represented my very own passport to the world. All I had to do was open up a new one and set foot in a new place.

I remember what it was like. I envy that in them. The newness. The greatness. The forbidden fruit. The gems. The truth. The stories. The hope. Unlocking your own mind and taking the best journey imaginable.

My oldest was a couple of chapters behind in her book club book. The meeting is tomorrow evening and her entire day is booked. Being who I am, I sat with her and read 50 pages aloud. We’d been reading the book back and forth. The story choice isn’t the most interesting to her (she’s more of a non-fiction) so I’ve been helping her to stay interested and focused. It was a Newberry book. It was a good book. By the end, I was choked up. Good writing, good characters. The kind of characters you can fall in love with.

There are worse things in this world than falling in love with a book character. Especially the kind of boy-on-the-cusp-of-manhood character who possesses integrity, sweetness, honesty, compassion, courage and loyalty. Lets not forget a wicked sense of humor. Perfect imperfections.

I want them to feel all of it. I want them to have all of it. More than my desire to keep them safe is my desire for them to live out loud. To love. To laugh. To cry. To dream. To read books they fall in love with. To write bad poetry. To pine over someone. To feel. And books are great places to try on those emotions. The start of a great adventure. What’s not to love?