I tiptoe
across the floor of my room, trying to force the sound of my
footsteps into the plush white carpet. Swinging the door open
carefully, so as not to hit the side of the crib, I glance down and
see tufts of blonde hair peeking out from under fleece Mickey Mouse
blankets. Gentle snores grumble through a snotty nose. Closing the
door behind me, I chuckle at the thought that not many college
seniors share their room with a toddler... especially when the child
is not their own. I step into the hall and overhear Dad's playful
call in the girls' room: “Alright! Who's ready for Chapter
Time!” Giggling, the two girls jump into their beds
and Mom pulls the blankets up around their chubby cheeks as Dad
settles back with a picture book. Heading downstairs to work on
homework, I smile as the ever-familiar deep hum of his voice follows
me down.
Around
the age of thirteen or fourteen, I found myself “maturing”—Chapter
Time was losing its luster. I came to the decision that I was far too
old to still have my Dad to read to me, so the night came that I
ignored my dad's call to join. Sitting proudly alone in my room, I
heard my father and brothers together, the stories continuing as they
always would. Proud and sulking... as much as I wanted to grow up, I
didn't want to be left out.
Not long
after, Chapter Time slowly slipped out of the family routine.
As a
fruit from being read to, I became an avid reader. I was taught an
appreciation for the written word at a young age. A very young age.
Competitive and stubborn by nature, I insisted that my mother teach
me to read at three years old, only because she had begun teaching my
6-year-old brother. (Just as an aside: we also graduated with our
Associate's at the same time. I never grew out of the
competitiveness.) Later on, as homeschooled daughter of a writer, my
education was severely lacking in the areas of math and science, but
was rich in novels. I read every copy of Nancy Drew in our
local library, and even tried to start my own Babysitter's Club
named “Baby Blues,” which for some reason never took off.
While my friends were starting to get in trouble for kissing boys and
watching R-rated movies, I got in trouble for sneaking flashlights
and reading until the wee hours of the morning. I had the capacity to
read my mom's 450-page World War II novel, From Dust and Ashes,
in one sitting, and always hungered for more. I knew the cover of
every book on each of the five bookshelves in our house, and realized
that the old saying is beyond wrong, because you CAN judge a book by
its cover. Or, at least I did. If the cover didn't catch my eye—if
I didn't feel a glimmer of excitement from holding the weight of it
in my hands—I would stuff it right back on the shelf and never give
it a second glance.
My whole
family is undergoing an adjustment period right now. My parents
recently acquired a 2-year-old boy and 5-year-old girl from the
foster care system. Once you add them to my 18-year old brother,
myself, and our already-adopted 2-year-old sister, the number of
“kids” living at home now amounts to five. While ever-unorganized
chaos reigns in my home, and I have discovered that doing homework
has become a nearly-impossible task, I feel so blessed to know that
the fountain of love pouring out of my parents is nowhere close to
dry. More mouths to feed, more clothes to clean.