You always told me I was your reader and as a toddler, I would bring you books all day long, begging you to read to me.
I remember bringing you Perfect the Pig and Scruffy the Tugboat over and over again. I’m fairly certain those were my favorites.
Then I grew and was able to read to myself. And I did, I immersed myself in books on those ugly mauve bedspreads you bought for me and Laura. You remember, right? The ones that you got as a King bedspread at a garage sale but cut and repurposed for the bunk beds to keep us on budget.
I get it now, the garage sales and budgets, sorry for being snotty about it as kid.
I still read these days, all curled up on my bedspread, yet more often than not I’m reading Goodnight Moon or The Cat in the Hat. I feel the weight and beauty of motherhood during story time.
My heart melts anytime Caedmon brings me a book and thrusts it onto my lap. He goes to bed with a book every night, and more often than not it’s “Night moon.”
During bedtimes stories, I feel connected to you and all the other mothers who’ve curled up with their children to soothe them to sleep with stories and songs.
Stories and snuggles to set the tone for a night of restful dreaming.
There is something sacred about sharing words on a page with your children. Something deeply spiritual about watching their eyes come alive as you “do the voices” and point to the pictures. I could go on and on about the perfume of old books and johnsons baby shampoo.
Thanks for teaching me how to read as a child, that legacy continues.
Thanks for reading to me
Thanks for reading this.
Love you, Miss you