“Momma, will you read to me?“
Everything in me wants to ignore the question and carry on with business. I’m on my way to tackle the boatload of dishes that are piled in the sink and on the counters more expertly than a hundred clowns packed in a VW bug.
I want to say, “I’ve got dishes to wash… I’ve read that book a thousand times already… That is the dullest book on this planet… I can’t for the life of me understand why you like that book so much…. No. No. No.”
But as quickly as the ‘NO’ thoughts enter my head, they are overrun with the reminder of the great privilege to read to my son; and with thoughts of gratefulness that he loves books; and also mixed with thoughts of how these these types of tender moments disappear as fast as they have appeared.
One day, I know he’ll sit down on that couch and won’t need me to read because he’ll be able to piece the words together on his own. I stop. And though my actions don’t wholly reflect my impatient thoughts, I turn and with a smile and say, “I’d be happy to.” And after obliging my son with the most BORING book on the planet, I realize, it truly did make my heart happy.
