The longer we sat, the more frustrated my son became. My tiredness came through in my tone and I fought my desire to take the book away from him and finish the reading myself.
“Sound it out, buddy. You can do this.”
He slowly mouthed each consonant and vowel of the next word. Then he came to a more difficult sentence and his impatience mounted again.
“What’s this word, Mama?” he asked with his long eyelashes batting up toward me. He knew exactly how to break me.
“No, you can read it. We’ve gone through this.”
He grunted and turned his face back toward the book. I wondered how long we’d been sitting there.
Every night since my oldest son was an infant, we’d engaged in this ritual. The bedtime story. Only recently, the role of reading had gone from Daddy and me to child.
Today I’m sharing what I learned from story time at Me Too Moments for Moms. You can read the rest of my post here.
*Picture courtesy of Derek & Diane Photography (text added)