What happened this morning was pretty much amazing.
Most of my life is lived in my head. Between the written word and snatches of conversations. If my life be eternal, books form its ancient soul. Isn't it but natural, then, that I surrounded my son with books even when he hadn't arrived. I had a clear idea of the books he'd read each year, the conversations we'd have, the parts we'd love.
And then he came. Unlike any other I have known. Stubborn, demanding to live life on his own terms. Challenging every notion I had - of propriety, of childhood, and parenthood. Not inclined to read a single book if he could have his way. I despaired, I cried, worried myself sick. What kind of kid hates the Faraway Tree? How spectacularly I have been failing to interest him in anything to do with imagination!!! How, how, how, was my child this mathematically inclined? What had I done? Where had I gone wrong? Seven agonizing years - hundreds of books - wasted pains.
I woke at 5.30 am, my body alarm attuned to workdays - schooldays. A whisper "Mom, today's a Saturday? No school?" I mumbled "Yes, love. Go back to sleep". I woke again at 7 am - one of those beautiful things that I call 'Almost Heaven'. And he looked up and smiled brightly. "Good morning, mom. I been reading 'coz I didn't feel sleepy. Did you know your brain works and blood flows even when you sleep?" Tears started to sting my eyes. He'd been reading? A book of science. A book nonetheless. A book? He'd been reading? And then he said "So what should I take to get to Pluto - a train, an aeroplane, a jet plane, or a rocket?" Happiness. Joy. That is what I take, son. And then he said "Let me read to you..."
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