My favorite thing my kid does is ask to read a book.
When we (used to) go to Target, he asks to see the books before toys. At bedtime, he piles seven to eight books in my lap and climbs up, scrambling over my knees and hard covers featuring Elmo, excavators, and Olaf. When Martian Mickey turns up on our daily Clubhouse binge, he runs for his Mickey book to flip to the page with Martian Mickey and holds it proudly to our TV, a mesh of screen and words meeting in his little, perfect mind. I know I’m very lucky. I know I need to invest time and my energy into this new love of his. I recently read a quote that was something along the lines of: teach a kid to love words, and he’ll always have the want, and capability, to teach himself. We’re living in a new world. That much is apparent, though none of us can define it yet. I don’t think any of us can even see the light at the end of the tunnel – it’s not ours to see yet, and that’s beyond bone-chilling. I don’t know what this means for my family, for my kid, for my husband and me in terms of our dreams, let alone our employment. I’ve found myself reading even more in my rare quiet moments (and during our daily Clubhouse binge) because I need every piece of sanity I can find. What I am absolutely certain of: my baby is watching me. I know that, and its part of why I read in front of him. Momma has no answers outside of what’s for dinner – and it’s not like he’s asking for anything beyond dinner anyway – but he will, eventually. I don’t have answers. I don’t even have the questions yet, I don’t think. But I know where to find peace, and I can pass that along to him. At least that I can do.
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