On Sunday morning, like many mornings, my three year old quietly pushed open our bedroom door and crawled into bed with me. It was very early, and the sky was still dark as a chalkboard. We could hear the rain falling, hitting our metal roof like a mallet hitting a xylophone. My husband had been awake for an hour and was downstairs reading the newspaper, sipping his morning coffee, enjoying some of his own quiet reading time.
“Go in your room and read for a while. Then come back and we’ll read together, “ I urged her, as I often do. And she did! I love it when that happens.
I pulled out my book, snuggled back in under my down comforter, and read for a few precious minutes. Then Ella returned, hauling a Diego book about humpback whales, which I’ve read many, many times over the years with all three of my children.
As we read, I thought about how reading is such a gift. How you escape from your life and come back to it. How you change your thinking or understand a very, very different experience from your own. We read about humpback whales, and now we know that they are the acrobats of the ocean, that they can hurl their thousands of pounds of bulk and fat and muscle out of the salty ocean, airborne. I knew it, but now I’m thinking about it with my little daughter, who I hope will continue to think about such dazzling things her entire life.