Bibliophile

At night, we stretch out on the bed for one of the few enduring rituals. Three books, three songs. For nearly five years, we have followed this same map to creep our way into night’s inner sanctum. Daddy’s house may have its own traditions now; I do not ask. For us, no matter the time zone in which we lay our heads, this is what Bug and Mommy do before bed.

Last night, we had finished up the first two picture books and Bug was reaching for the third. “Which one will it be?” He grinned sideways at me. He already clasped a Dr. Seuss against his chest.

“Maybe Wizard of Oz?” I said. “Or. . . Alice in Wonderland?”

Bug tilted the book down for a glance. “You’re teasing. We don’t have Alice in Wonderland.”

“Yes, we do. Right there, on the shelf. We have lots of big kid books.”

Dropping the Dr. Seuss and scooting off the bed, Bug made his way to the same bookcases that have stared him down for more than a year. He itched a mosquito bite on his tanned arm as he stood contemplating the rainbow splashed across his wall.

My son’s bookcases house an eclectic mix of titles. We live in the two spare rooms, after all, so the meager remains of my personal library have spilled over onto my kid’s shelves. Yet, the diversity is as much by design by necessity. Over the years, I have peppered his Little Critter and Beatrix Potter collection with young adult novels, non-fiction titles, and a random assortment of what Bug refers to as “grown up books.” 

“Is this Harry Potter?”

I grinned. All seven books have lived at eye-level since the kid could first stand up. It has taken him this long to notice. “Sure is,” I sighed. “I don’t know, though. They are big kid books. No pictures. Do you think you can handle it?”

He grabbed the spine marked with a number one and puffed out his chest. “I have read big kid books before. I can handle it!”

He crawled back onto the bed and we took in the cover’s busy dazzle. “You know, kiddo, your daddy and I read this book at bedtime together, just like this.”

“You did?”

“Yep. Long before you were born.  We would read out loud in bed to each other, one chapter a night. We took turns. We read almost the whole series, just like that.” I opened the book and began.

Bug twisted and wiggled next to me, interrupting at irregular intervals for clarification. “When is Harry Potter going to come?” Kick, fidget. “What is all this talking?”

Back to the page, back to the tale, I guided my son’s wandering attention. I offered to stop but he insisted we continue. The story’s music soon pulled us in. Immersed, my voice found each character’s unique lyric. Bug’s body echoed the pace of the story’s deepening breath.  The ensemble settled into its rhythm there on the bottom bunk.

At last, the final line of chapter one sang out. “To Harry Potter – The boy who lived!” I smiled and snapped the book closed. Bug let out a shriek and burst into tears.

“I want more! More Harry Potter! Please, Mommy, just one more chapter! Please!”

“Tomorrow is the weekend, Baby. We can read two chapters if you want.”

“Can we read three chapters?” He rubbed his fist into his teary eyes. “Or four?”

I laughed and hugged him close. “We can read all weekend if you want.” I began to sing. In my arms, Bug whimpered his way to sleep.

What a haunting chord, this pride at witnessing my child’s righteous despair. My son cries out his disappointment at losing his nourishment. What sustains him now is not me; it exists behind garden doors to which I can only offer a key.  These tears are evidence of his becoming a literate boy. He is not just learning to read. He is learning to love to read.  At last, he hungers for the things he needs to thrive beyond the reach of this embrace.

Bon Voyage

Books - the best antidote against the marsh-gas of boredom and vacuity.    - George Steiner

The fear has been that Bug will get lost in the storm. We move, his mommy starts back at work, his daddy moves yet again, his gramma un-retires, and yet another preschool tapes his name to a cubby. From one day to the next, this four-year-old doesn't know where he is going to be.

When I tumble back through the looking-glass, I can call up inverted images of that mommy who used to spend long stretches of every day walking her son through the tasks of life. They made fingerpaint out of cornstarch. She wandered with him into the woods and to gaze at polliwogs in the creek. Butter knife in hand, he helped prep the veggies for dinner. Hell, they made dinner.

Now, it is all I can do to nuke a meal, draw a bath, and read a few books at bedtime. The two day care centers watching Bug during his fractured week had better be teaching him well, because in this house, we haven't touched play-doh or the dress-up trunk in months.

Tumbling forward to this side of the mirror has come at great cost, but dwelling on the loss is a recipe for misery. We bouy each other, my kid and me, by speaking about our favorite things each day. Yet, every week, I make silent, earnest promises to myself to do better when Saturday comes around. Divided as the weekends are between two parents, I know I only have 24 hours to make up for lost time. "We will sit down at the piano together," I say to myself during the arduous Friday commute. "We will work on letters on the white-board. I'll attend wholly to my son's (doubtlessly delayed) development and take him down to the Smithsonian."

But Bug has other plans. After spending the week tossed between caregivers, he doesn't want to do much more than flit around the house and the yard, touching all his familiar stuff. A most thrilling outing is crashing his Thomas bike into a tower of crates in the driveway. Also? Let's be honest here. I'm wrecked. All of my best parenting intentions leak away as Saturday morning gives way to the afternoon, and time for the inevitable trade-off approaches. I'm happy if I can just puddle on the floor next to my son while he scoots his dinosaurs around the living room. My abbreviated weekend involves an endless quest for low-resource, high-quality educational activities that require minimal expenditure of ergs.

This morning, I convinced Bug to crawl up next to me on the sofa and to listen to a story. This is ambrosia for a weary mommy. No operating instructions, recipes, or road maps required. We sit. I read. Bliss.

Today, we were reading a book that has the names of certain supermarket items displayed around the page separated from the text. Bug interrupted my reading to ask, "What's that one, Mommy?" He was pointing to the vegetable display. I have been re-reading this story for the better part of three years. It didn't occur to me to do anything differently than what I had always done. I simply pointed to each item and read it aloud. Carrots, beets, broccoli.

Then we reached the page with the deli and meat counter. He interrupted again. "What's that?" I remembered that Bug had been tracing out his letters at the table the night before. I took a different approach. "Try sounding it out." He did. Slowly, he traced his finger across the letters. "Buh-ay-cuh-aw-n." He went back and did it again. "Buh-ay-con." A grin spread across his face. He turned to me, recognition a new sun rising behind his eyes. "Bacon!"

"You got it! What about this one?" I pointed. "The C-H makes a 'ch' sound."

"Chuh-i-k-eh-n." Another grin. "Chicken!"

"Baby," I pulled him close. "You're reading. You know that?"

Bug wriggled out of my grasp and sat up straighter on the sofa. "Another one," he said. He traced his finger along a word. Bread. Then another. Crackers. He worked through each until the sounds coalesced into a familiar arrangement. Checkout Counter. Magazines. Cashier. One after another, objects surfaced on his lips and inside his skull in perfect synchronicity. The charge of pleasure and pride down his spine crackled right through to my own skin. Perhaps this is not Helen Keller at the water pump, but the dawning wonder of comprehension is no less magnificent for being commonplace. My beautiful boy had begun to read.

As it turns out, Bug is not lost. The weather may be unpredictable, but a wide circle of people, some family and some professionals, cares for him and helps him learn how to navigate the chop. He has two homes full of stimulating activities, two addresses he shares with loving adults. He is fine. Even when my maternal panic tries to convince me otherwise, the more worldy parts of me know he's got a pretty good deal. Still, it is a relief to witness this external measure of my child's good progress.

The real delight of today's breakthrough comes from a much deeper well than simply knowing my son is on track and meeting a external standard of success. Today, I saw my little boy finally kicking off the shore on his journey as a reader. He will now begin to have books as sources of adventure, solace, and escape. A literate child can tap hope when the world fails to deliver. Far from being lost; if my son finds books, he can find his way.