Wednesday, April 28, 2010
When my daughter was little, I read to her every night.
We read Junie B. Jones, Charlotte’s Web, Lemony Snickett, The Chronicles of Narnia. I loved the stories. They made us laugh and wonder and sigh and sometimes shed a tear. But as much as I loved these books - I loved the time with my daughter the best.
Some nights I was almost too tired to do it. But it became a tradition, so I’d squish onto her bed – she’d snuggle in – and we’d read and read and read.
Now she reads on her own – sigh. Sometimes we read the same books – but not as a nightly ritual. We enjoyed the Harry Potter series together –but she sped by me and was rereading while I was still finishing the first go round.
So it is particularly sweet that I am reading a story with her now: The Tale of Desperaux by Kate DiCamillo. I heard Kate speak at a recent writer’s conference and found her completely charming. I decided to buy this book and try for one last reading ritual with Sabrina.
Last night, as she leaned in on me in her flannel pjs, I smelt the top of her head and hugged her close. Reading words aloud has a certain magic, almost like the wonder of a 12-year-old who is almost too grown up to read a bedtime story with her mom.
Almost, but not quite…