Reading Shifts
We started another book and it’s just not the way I remembered it from when I was in fifth grade. I told Tate how much I’d loved it but now, though we keep at it, I can’t stand it as much as she can’t. It’s a terrible book.
We finally agree to set it down (me, still reluctantly, as I get attached to finishing books I start); it’s no less than painful to read. This is the second one of late we’ve had to give up on.
“Well, what should we read then, babe?”
“I don’t actually want to read a book together with you, anymore. Let’s just read things on our own.”
“We always do that, too, but I really like to have a book going together.” My heart is being squeezed, yet again, by this pulling away, this growing-up thing.
“We’ll try to do better picking this time. I admit, I’ve really pushed for some doozies lately. How about you lead and pick a few you’d like to read together and then we can choose from those, which one is next?”
“No, I mean it. I’m done reading with you. Sorry, Mom.”
I flash to the countless book snuggles, both nights and mornings where the two of us are curled up in each other - laughing about the character voice I nailed, sharing tears of empathy over a plot situation that feels nothing less than real or just enveloped in the wonder of where our story is leading us. Comparing our various connections, admitting our own beliefs, making predictions of where the characters will go next. The feeling of those hours, that closeness, is deep inside my chest.
“It’s a real value of mine, reading, sweetie. I don’t want to be done sharing in stories together. We’ll find one we both want to read.”
She shakes her head gently but firmly, knowing, the old soul she is, what I really want to say is, Oh no, no, don’t go, sweetheart. Stay close. I don’t want to let this go. Let you go. Stay young with me …
The subtlety of mamahood heartbreak. Sigh.
