One of my first memories involves reading, no surprise. There is a well known children’s book, Goodnight Moon, that I am sure most of you know. I wanted to read it, but I was four years old and didn’t know how to read yet. So, my older, therefore, wiser sister, Michelle told me I was going to memorize it. In spite of her torturing of me from time to time, she sure had good ideas every once in awhile.
I practiced memorizing it for a few days maybe? I don’t know how long but it had already been read to me so many times that I don’t remember it being difficult. There were a few times when I missed a “the” or something or confused “a comb, a brush, and a bowl full of mush” and Michelle would force me to start over.
While I was reading with my five year old son today, I remembered this. We were reading a book about Pecos Bill (random) and he wanted to repeat every word that I said and pretend like he was reading it. I was just struck how in some people, the love of reading seems to be ingrained in them from a young age. They are just interested in it.
Maybe it’s the potential of being able to do something that older people do? Maybe it’s being able to do something totally on your own? Maybe it’s the disappearing to another country, land, universe just for a little bit? I don’t know what it is but it has always been magical to me. I love that it is the same for my kids. I hope it will always be that way.
I hope I can call one of my kids and tell them, “You just have to read this book.” And that they will read it and love it. And that they will tell me about a book they have read and I’ll read it and be slightly surprised because, “How are they old enough to read this book?” But of course, they will be grown ups. I know someday I will look at that little stack of children’s books I saved for grandkids and maybe tear up a bit because now my kids are reading them to their kids. And the love of reading cycle will continue on.
Art found here