scribblechic

However our days unfold, evenings have always held the promise of stillness and stories. Tucked together between quiet minutes we have unraveled countless stories as we tiptoed closer to dreams.

The past three years you have shared your own story as a developing reader. Unlike your brother who slipped seamlessly from listening to reading, your journey has been an experience fraught with frustration. Your fears and my worries lingered beneath broken efforts as we gathered books and expectations into disorderly stacks. Each reading was a partnership in hope and perseverance. Each evening I mindfully noted your emotions, trying to encourage you without suffocating the joy from the act of reading.

Your earliest success still lingers in my mind. I can see your mouth moving around the shape of the words forcing them intentionally from page to sound. Slowly words linked into sentences, then pages. Each effort was met honestly with determination, but little joy.

Last Wednesday you finished your first chapter book and I held your accomplishment with the breathless wonder I witnessed other firsts. However, unlike your first steps which quickly collected into an endless path of discovery, this new milestone seemed stuck in a moment. Until last night.

Opening to the first page in a new chapter you read diligently to the last page. It is the first step in our evening dance, as we exchange roles as reader and listener. Upon reaching the end of your chapter we settled into our routine, I slipped downstairs to replenish the water for your bedside before gathering my book to share. Returning to your room, I paused at the top of the stairs listening to the sound of your voice reading ahead. Lost to the story, moving blindly forward without tallying the pages kept I waited out of sight cautious not to break the spell.

When at last you were quiet I entered your room to the most endearing exclamation: Mom, you are never going to believe what happened! Want to hear what you missed? 

You then contextualized the missing piece of the story for me, punctuating facts with dramatic voices and the toothless grin that has become the hallmark of your elementary years. When you fumbled between the pages for a particular passage my heart burst in a million pieces for the shared experience of seeking and sharing a written treasure. Our evening unfolded into five more chapters, trading places only when you could no longer keep from yawning between words.

Yours is my favorite bedtime story. I could not be more proud or humbled to witness your journey, page by page.

Love, Mom

Tagged: Daughter, Musings, Reading