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.
Growing
up, “Chapter Time” was family time. I have to admit, this was a
clever move on my parents' part. They had been struggling to make us
stay in bed at night, and realized that we settled down much better
if they read to us before we fell asleep. What started as a toddler
anecdote became family tradition. Every night, without fail, my
brothers and I would line up on my parents' bed and Dad would read us
a single chapter. Series after series, book after book:
Chronicles
of Narnia, the
Light
of Eidon,
the Hobbit.
Tales of adventure and love, of heroes that would go to the ends of
the earth (or another world) to ensure that truth and light prevails.
This was always the favorite part of my day. Even Dad's business
trips couldn't stop us! He would pack the current book in his
suitcase, and we would huddle around the speakerphone at night and
listen to his familiar—yet slightly more metallic—voice. I knew
that voice by heart. I would snuggle up next to him, his “Girl
Squirrel,” and lay my head on his chest. As he spoke, I could hear
the words as much through the air as through his being, the beat of
his heart keeping pace. When not snuggled up, my father and I even
worked out an elaborate foot-massage system: we would sit with our
feet aiming at each other and rub the other person's feet while he
read. Now that seems an unusual memory. However, I
have always
loved foot rubs.
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.
Though
my summer reading list was pages long, I
realized that I had somehow avoided reading the “classics.”
To
Kill a Mockingbird still sits in
a pile under my bed, never read more than two pages deep.
Pride
and Prejudice is my favorite
movie, but I've never read a written word of Jane Austen. My Kindle
library is growing long with the list of traditional books, but I
have yet to read them. Free Kindle books made it easy to stock up on
traditional titles. I considered feeling guilty about it for a while,
until I recently heard a classmate mention that she had to read
the
Scarlet Letter seven times
during her high school career. I felt so grateful for the variety and
freedom I held in pursuing any book I so desired. Maybe this
educational independence has stuck with me more than I know, as I
have continued to avoid the expected career path and am majoring in
Interdisciplinary Studies. I could choose what I wanted to read, now
I can choose what I want to study.
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.
More
hearts to love,
more books to read.
