“Mom, I’ve decided to start a reading club,” Sam, age 7, soon to be a second grader, declared.
It’s 6:23 am and he’s standing beside me in Ninjago jammies, sticking up hair, and Wonderstruck grasped between both hands. “It’s early, Buddy,” I say, still wanting to stretch a few more lines before the house wakes up.
“Yeah, I know. But I can’t stop thinking about a reading club. Peyton finished The Invention of Hugo Cabaret, and I told him about Wonderstruck.”
I stop in the middle of the line I’m writing, reminding myself this reading life in front of me is more important than clicking words on the page. “You and Peyton were talking about books?”
“Sure,” he said climbing onto the couch beside me and stealing half of my quilt. “You know we do. You gave his mom by Hugo book and he read it. You can’t read that book and not want another Brian Selznick book. I wish there were more than two. I’ll have to remind Peyton to savor this one.”
I stifle a sigh and move my computer off of my lap, postponing my writing and making room for his excitement about reading. This shouldn’t be such a hard choice — moving aside my plans in order to invest in his reading life. It is, though. I’m in the middle of a productive writing session. He’s not supposed to be awake. I’ve been listening to him talk about Brian Selznick for over a year and a half.
But this is what I’m learning: Investing in reading lives often happens at the most inconvenient times.
Unhurried. Finding the magic in the middle of living. Capturing a life of ridiculous grace + raw stories.