Earlier this week I was doing some procrastination cleaning at about 5:47 am. This is the time that I typically reserve for myself. My brain works best right after I've had adequate sleep (not good, I'm in a graduate teaching program, I don't foresee good sleep until mid-June). I can have a quiet cafe au lait and catch up on textbook reading before my three darling girls drag themselves out of bed and start placing their breakfast orders (and suddenly remembering another piece of homework they need help with right now because it is due today).
I justify my procrastination cleaning by telling myself that it will actually help me to get my homework done. I will have less to think about. I get distracted by clutter. I like everything to have a place, and for the most part I want everything in that place. I've relaxed a bit. I now enjoy having the LEGOS out and on display. If the books and games are always put away, that means no one is using them.
I was busy straightening up children's literary magazines, coloring books, art supplies, and many partially completed art projects. The book/art shelf was beginning to look fairly tidy. I reached for one of the books that had a torn cover not sure why I was pulling it off the shelf. It was a collection of children's stories. Stories that my mom used to read to me when I was a child. There next to where the battered book had just been was Harriet the Spy. It suddenly dawned on me. I was staring at all of the books that I didn't remember. Well, I remember some of the stories, but I don't have a clear recollection of how they got into my head. I wrote my literacy vignette last week on how my mom had developed my love for reading with her great expression and amazing character voices. I had very specific memories of certain books, big, important books. Some so important that I don't feel that I can read them aloud, because I will never be able to read them quite the way my mom did/does. But here, right in front of me, was a treasure trove of books that I am certain mom read when I was little. I have a whole long shelf of beat up, well-loved books that are full of stories that my girls and I can enjoy together (and then probably not remember).
I love days like that, when you discover something that was / and still is so meaningful to you. Things like childhood books that you haven't read in ages. I would always look forward to reading with my Dad at bedtime. He had the best character voices and dialect for stories that nobody else was actually allowed to read them to me :) Great memories, thanks for sharing!
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