Once upon a time there was a girl who loved stories. She loved them so much that she “wrote” stories before she even knew how to write (her drawing abilities were not as amazing has her story telling skills but her mother didn’t let her think otherwise).
Her mother loved stories too and she and the little girl spent hours upon hours of her childhood snuggled on the couch reading books together.
The little girl grew up and her love for stories grew up too. She decided to throw all practical thought to the wind and major in reading stories (also known as an English major) not only for one college degree, but for TWO!
Although the girl was woefully underemployed after college, she had big dreams for her future. She dreamed of sharing her love of stories with her sons, who surely would love to read just as much as she did.
Alas, this was not to be.
The little boys she birthed were very different from their mother. They did not like reading.
They did not enjoy sitting still.
Listening was hard for many, many reasons.
They were not interested in words.
They were only mildly entertained by pictures that did not move.
What they really liked to do was wrestle.
The mother felt confused, sad, and, as the years went by, she teetered on the edge of hopelessness. She wondered if she would ever be able to share the same love of stories with her children that she shared with her own mother.
It was a deep, deep desire of her heart.
One day, not very long ago, the mother stood in front of a shelf at the library.
Should I? She asked herself, her hand hovering over a book. It was one of her favorites. Maybe…maybe? Maybe this time…
She decided to keep trying.
She checked Harry Pottery and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J.K. Rowling out from the library.
Her boys were not as eager as she was. But the mother used her magical mother-ways to convince them to read, “just one chapter.”
At the end of the chapter, her heart racing with delight, she turned to her sons and said, “Well…? Should we go on?
“Nah,” they replied and started to wrestle.
But the mother did not teeter into that pit of hopelessness. She had become strong in her years of trying. She simply put a bookmark in the book and made them sit down and read the next night. And the next. And the next.
And slowly, slowly, they asked for two chapters. Then three.
The mother felt wickedly delighted in denying their pleas, telling them “No, it’s time for bed. But we will read more tomorrow!” knowing that they were hooked.
And so the boys grew to love Harry, Ron, and “the girl.” They hated Snape and wished to turn him into a toad. They were terrified of Voldemort. (They couldn’t remember who Neville was, and referred to Malfoy as “the bully” but the mother let those details slide).
And last night, they finished the WHOLE BOOK, A WHOLE CHAPTER BOOK.
It bears repeating: The girl who loved stories was able to share that love with her sons and they read a WHOLE BOOK TOGETHER. And the boys loved it too.
In fact, as one of her sons said, “That was amazing! And now we can read the next one.”
And the heart of the girl who loved stories was very, very full.