Reading begins at home with a parent reading a book to their child long before the child recognizes the letters on the page or the words the letters create. Reading begins with bright colors on a page that eventually form pictures the child recognizes. Both parent and child benefit from the time spent together. For the parent, the time will be gone too soon only to become a precious memory. For the child, the time becomes the foundation for a love of reading they never knew they needed.
Here is a memory from long ago, of a little girl who learned to read for the sheer joy of the characters and stories each book brought into her life. Her love of reading began with the pictures in the book, the funny voices her mama used to read the silly words, and the love she instinctively felt while sitting on her mama’s lap. The little girl would eventually learn to read on her own and to turn the pages alone, but in the beginning, her small hand covered her mamas as the story continued.
Leaning against the door frame of her daughter’s bedroom, Kate was not surprised to find Abigail snuggled on her bed between a collection of blue and yellow pillows with an oversized book resting on her outstretched legs. “You about ready to go see Auntie Harper?”
Abigail clicked red glitter shoes together and laughed as sparkles rained over her lace edged socks and onto her yellow bedspread. “In a minute, Mommy. Please let me finish. The mama duck is leading her babies to the pond. I like the part where the policeman helps them cross the road.”
Kate drew a deep breath as memories flooded her heart and mind. Years ago, she’d propped a slouching three-month-old Abigail against her stomach and read the quaint tales of Beatrix Potter and the silly rhymes of Dr. Seuss. Her husband, James, had shaken his head and told her reading aloud was a waste of time and that Abigail was too young to understand what the words meant. He’d never enjoyed reading, had claimed he’d had a bad experience in grammar school that left him ashamed of how slowly he read. As a result, James never read more than the occasional car or sports magazine. Kate had had the opposite experience. Memories of devoted teachers who read aloud a chapter book a month to the class and included thirty minutes of reading into each day’s lesson planning. Kate remembered the color codes of the SRA boxes that kept students challenged, yet engaged, for the next level. She’d learned to love to read, couldn’t imagine life without books, and was determined to pass along the magic of literature to her daughter. She’d read to Abigail every day and knew she’d succeeded when, last year, she’d found Abigail on the front porch in her red, child-sized rocking chair rocking to the rhythm of her own voice telling the story of Ariel and Flounder and their life under the sea. The Little Mermaid had been Abigail’s nightly reading request for more nights than Kate could remember. Now, as she listened through the window she had to muffle a laugh at Abigail’s timing and intonation that matched Kate’s. It wasn’t until Abigail said, “The End!” and clapped the book closed that Kate saw the book was upside down. Abigail had memorized the book, verbatim, and considered herself a reader.
Since then, Kate had taught Abigail to read the Disney picture books she loved, and introduced her to the beginner chapter books that now filled her bookshelf. Scheduled weekly trips to the library had Abigail checking out as many books as she could carry, only to return them the following week with her four-year-old commentary to share with the librarian.
“Two more pages, Duckface, then we’re on the road.”
Abigail’s small lips moved over each word in a whisper soft voice, pausing only when she pulled her feet under her, curled onto her hip, and turned the page. Watching more glitter fall onto the bed, Kate doubted the shoes would still be red when they reached Boston.
-SARA