When I was at my parents house for Thanksgiving this week, everyone spent a lot of time reading. Kids read with their feet propped up in comfy armchairs, grandparents pulled out the reading glasses, Todd snuggled up with his i Pad, and I wandered around looking at the bookshelves.
I certainly and thoroughly inherited this love. When I was a kid and needed consequences and discipline, the only leverage my parents had was in my books. If necessary, I would not be permitted to read in order to refine my focus on other areas, such as math problems, exercise, dishes, and getting dressed on the weekends.
I had some good tricks up my sleeve for sneaking my habit unnoticed… (Cracking the door just so, to let in the tiniest shaft of light; the ability to feign sleep at a moment’s notice and to deftly slip a book into my pillowcase and under my cheek.)
Looking back, though, I wonder if my parents didn’t know all along of my sneaky ways, and yet allowed it to go on… They empathized with my situation.
My kids didn’t inherit orderliness from me, nor did I from my parents. I’m so glad, though, that our stacks and piles and overflowing closets are mostly filled with books.