Thursday, August 15, 2013


Earlier this week, I posted on Transition. It is only fair, then, to post on Discovery.

Yesterday, Pax and I enjoyed a gloriously wonderful day.  I savored our slow walk home from the bus stop, the time we took to look at a snail; the imaginative conversation I overheard him having with his miniature animals; the picnic lunch from Bodo's we had on the floor of my church office; his insistence that I paint his fingernails and toenails the same coral color I have on mine, then announcing mid-way, "these are starting to look really cute."  At bedtime, I looked deep into his bright blue eyes and said, "Pax, thank you for such a wonderful day.  I loved being with you so much."  He said "You're welpum.  And I did not even miss you today!"  I laughed and said no, we were together all day, how could you miss me? He said again, "I know!  I did not miss you at all today!"

I discovered, again, the deliciousness of what it means to give your youngest child your undivided attention.  To have the time, and therefore the patience, to be a yes mom, the kind of mom who will stop for the snail; who will hear the imaginative play and let it register for what it is; who will recognize the urging in the voice that says "aren't you going to eat your lunch with the me at my picnic on the floor?"; the mom who is reminded that he didn't miss me today because I was his.  Exclusively.

And so I am reminded that transition makes room for discovery.  Including this one:

The discovery, or more precisely, the affirmation of the kind of power that early reading exerts over emerging readers.  The discovery that the seed that we've planted here is deeply rooted, that the very first time, before this snapshot in time was recorded, he brought this book to me and announced we would read it together.  Skeptical, I gathered him on my lap.  I pointed to the title, read the words, opened to the first page.  He took over. Astonished, I listened to him "read" every single page to me, listened to how hard he worked to pronounce the elusive "silly S" sound on every page, pointing to the words on every page.  This articulate boy, who just over a year ago, struggled to communicate even a mere hundred words.

Today, I am so grateful for the transition that led to this discovery.

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