My favorite books as a child were the Curious George books and "Where The Wild Things Are." I don't remember a time as a kid when I read these books myself, though I assure you I did learn to read. But my memories of these books are when they were read to me. And these books were some of the first I bought when we were preparing for our son's arrival. I couldn't wait to share these treasures with him and I hoped they would become as meaningful to him as there were - and still are - to me.
I've had the pleasure of being read to again recently. My car broke down (that flippin', floppin, son-of-a-mechanic piece of crap) and I had at least an hour's wait in a mostly deserted parking lot until I would be rescued by a knight in a flat-bed tow truck. So, I did what any girl would do - I made sure my doors were locked and then I called my mommy. She had been telling me about the new Amy Tan book she was reading and one thing led to another and she started to read it to me. I was mesmerized. I had forgotten the pleasure of being read to. I was a kid again. I could almost feel her breath in my hair and and the warmth of her body as she was reading to me. My imagination played with the words she read in a way that doesn't quite happen when I'm reading silently to myself. Being read to brought the story more fully to life. She read to me for about 30 blissful minutes.
A few days and several hundred dollars later (thanks, you freakin' Ford losers), she and I talked again about being read to, and about the other times in our adult lives where one adult reading to another has brought comfort and love, help and healing. When my mother was very ill in the hospital about ten years ago, I read to her "The Book of Ruth" from beginning to end. She remembers the connection to the world through my voice and I recall being able to feel useful while she recovered. Seeing my usually happy, cheerful mother lying in a hospital bed and barely able to move was horrifying and I welcomed the reading to escape the ache in my heart. A few years prior to this, my brother was in the hospital recovering from one of his several death-defying events, and she read to him from a John Steinbeck book. I'm sure her reading to him made her feel useful while escaping the reality of my brother's injuries as well. And then, just a few years ago, my grandfather fell and broke some bones while vacationing in New York. My mother flew back there to be with my grandmother and help with arrangements and logistics for travel back to L.A. My mother and grandmother shared a trundle bed for a few days - grandma got the bed with the reading light and my mom got the roll-out trundle without. So, grandma read to my mother "Huckleberry Finn," complete with character voices. I tell you, I'd give anything to have that scene on video and it would a most prized posession.
Now my son is three and my daughter is almost two. They both love books and Curious George is one of their favorites. Sometimes they'll even choose reading a book with mommy over watching a movie - how cool is that? But I must admit that sometimes this crazy life gets in the way of my reading to my kids. There are things to do during the day, and laundry and chores that need to be started once they're asleep and sometimes story time doesn't happen. But this recent experience with my mother reminded me how valuable and meaningful being read to is, especially when it's the voice of someone who loves you, like your mommy or daddy. Being read to is an intimate link between the voice of the reader and the imagination of the listener. Being read to is a gift of time, love and attention. So, thanks, mom, for helping me get back in touch with what's really important. I love you.
The end.
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