My son is in grade three this year, and we’ve been given a wonderful gift by his teacher, independent home reading.
Since he was able to speak I’ve logged thousands of hours sitting through learn-to-read books as my frustrated little boy sounded out every single word night after night. It was torture. By the age of six he was finally able to read fluently and without assistance; then came two years of photocopied books from hell. “Jane plays soccer” might haunt me for life. I swear any parent who can sit through more than five minutes of a child learning to read is a saint.
When I pulled my son’s bright red home reading folder out of his backpack this year my heart sank. I opened the log and skimmed the cheery instruction page at the front, ready for another year of awful books. I dug through his backpack full of crumpled paper and toys, but there were no books to accompany the rules. Assuming he forgot them at school I reread the note and found that, to my surprise, my son was allowed to read whatever he wants! The rules were simple:
- Fifteen minutes of reading per day, totaling one hour per week.
- Record the amount of pages read, and the name of the book.
My son is the only person I know who consumes books with passion that rivals my own. Lost in the worlds of Battle Bugs, Spirit Animals and Diaries of a Wimpy Kid my son was thrilled about home reading time. It quickly became a routine for him to run to my bedroom with a book after dinner. At first I set a timer, but he always asked if he could read longer. It was his down time, away from screens, noise, and of course his little brother as well.
I remember so many nights spent hidden under the covers, reading in bed, clicking my reading light on and off as the floor creaked, scared I’d be caught by my parents walking past my bedroom. When they let me move into the basement bedroom alone it felt like Christmas, I was free to read late into the night without being found out. Sometimes I would read a short book that I loved, and feel absolute devastation when it ended, wishing I knew what came next. Other times I’d look for the biggest, most interesting book I could find, and relish in the fact that I could fall into a new world and stay there for weeks.
For the last month my son has been reading Harry Potter. I was worried I was pushing him above his comfortable reading level, giving him my childhood favorite. I cautiously ask him what part of the book he’s at when he finishes reading for the night and I’m amazed to hear that my child’s mind has been taken over by witches, wizards, and a love for Diagon Alley. These conversations transcend home reading time, and I find that we’re discussing what he’s been reading during most of our conversations.
Home reading this year has been a dream. At first it allowed me to spend a little time with my toddler, do the dishes or any number of tasks while he was occupied. It only occurred to me recently that I was a little jealous of my young reader.
As a writer I’m often trapped in a challenging work-in-progress. I have very little free time and I don’t spend nearly as much as I should reading. One night, out of pure exhaustion, I decided to crawl into bed beside him while he read. The next night I brought a book of my own.
Together we’ve fallen into a routine that is quickly becoming the best part of my day, our home reading time. I leave the toddler to my husband, and dishes be damned I spend with my son doing our favorite thing, and doing it together.
This time fills me with joy, and a sense of accomplishment for creating such a wonderful person. I was never one for children’s games, movies or toys but my years of perseverance have paid off in a big way. I now have a wonderful companion who enjoys trips to the library while I write, and snuggles up to read with me before bed.
I’ve fallen into a wonderful place where my self-care time is something I can enjoy with my child, rather than needing time away to recharge. Reading is as effortless (and necessary) as breathing to me. The feeling I get when I see my little reader curled up with a book is pure joy. I see him sinking into worlds I discovered years ago, but for the first time, and I’m thankful that he can feel the thrill of it too.
