Folding laundry. Matching socks. Cutting up strawberries. Bedtime. Rainy days. Nap time. Special Occasions. Early morning. School time. After the house is cleaned. While outside. While inside. In the car. While on trips. Over the holidays. At the grandparents. If we got hurt. Birthdays. Winter, Spring, Summer, and Autumn…
These are just a few of the times I had books read to me as a child.
As in, I was basically being read to constantly as a wee tot, and for that, I’m forever thankful. A deep fondness and respect for written words was fostered in me long before I could read them myself, and those feelings only grew once I could devour stories on my own.
Looking back my childhood memories are punctuated time and time again with idyllic settings including books. I’m one of the younger ones out of ten children, so life was obviously busy for my parents and older siblings yet I don’t have any memories of a book being refused to be read. I’m sure there were occasions, but they were few and far between compared to the host of times books were read to me and my siblings. (Sometimes a task had to be completed before a book was read, but that wasn’t a “no” or “not now” that was “let’s hurry up and finish this then I will” type of deal.)
Nowadays I’m one of the “grown-ups” who can read to little children. Our house abounds with books, thousands of them in hallway-lined bookshelves, offices, and baskets for kids. Quite often my little niece asks me to read to her and that makes my writerly heart jump for joy.
I want to be one of those “yes” people – an adult who shows through example that books are important, special, and a treasure to be delighted over.
Next time you’re around little children, why not make it a point to read to them? And, if you’re looking for a Christmas gift, why not choose a book? It could be the gift of a whole new world that could change their life for forever. How neat is that?