We’re still here, still reading. The monkey is still reading MY BIG SHOUTING DAY and is loving trying to identify the words and phonetically spelling out letters to make words. Gove would be so proud. If only I cared.
My child is developing and growing in ways that nurture my heart. Week upon week, her interest in her stories and what she wants to do with the books I read to her are changing. She wants so much more control (of course!) and the more control she has, the more fun she has. It’s completely terrific. More and more now, I want to blog about those profound moments, those moments I used to roll my eyes about when I heard other parents talk about them, but parenting her in turn parents me. This month she has shown such great compassion and spirit and heart when we have been in turns exhausted, sad, despondent and exhilarated. I love how her life and her reading co-exist and feed in and of themselves.
I love our end of day quiet time, when we reflect on the day and each other, as much as the story we are reading. I know I am not alone when I realise that often those are the only chance we get in a day to be wholly present with each other, to meditate on each other. Those days, when we have that connection when we read, are always the days when she settles down for the night happy and calm, having got just the right attention, respect and love. Why is that so often so hard?