A-B-C Read to Me

My five year-old has done something amazing and beyond belief this month. He is reading. Somehow, he went from knowing his ABC’s to suddenly being able to look at those letters and decode words. Even though his two brothers before him have learned to read, this is still a miracle to me. Not long ago, he began haltingly pointing to each letter and painstakingly sounding them out, then slowly, with my help, mashing the sounds together to create a word. This week, a switch has been flipped. The letters have become words, the words are sentences, and the sentences are a story. Best of all, he knows that he is doing something amazing. He’s walking with extra swagger.

Last night, as I was reading to my older sons (we are currently engrossed in Mary Amato’s hilarious book, Snarf Attack, Underfoodle, and the Secret of Life: The Riot Brothers Tell All), the five year-old wandered into the room where we were reading and politely, but pointedly cleared his throat.

We stopped reading and looked at him.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” he said very formally, “but I want you to hear something.”

From behind his back, he whips out a beginning reader booklet, photocopied by his kindergarten teacher. It is all of four pages long. He clears his throat again.

I see the nine year-old brother rolling his eyes. He is anxious to continue Snarf Attack and does not like this unplanned intermission. I cast him a glare, and he catches my meaning: Don’t ruin this moment for your brother. His eyes unroll.

Five year-old clears his throat one last time and begins.

“I see a fan for me. Look at the little fan ...”

We listen attentively. When he is finished, we clap appreciatively. Nine year-old is feigning politeness; my applause comes with a definite welling up of tears and a leap in my heart. My baby is reading. A whole new world of possibilities have opened up to him. He’s earned a huge piece of independence, and it can never be taken away from him.

The new reader, satisfied with his public reading, takes a deep bow. “Thank you,” he grins. And just like that, he turns on his heel and is gone. The momentous occasion is over, and it is time to return to the zany antics of the Riot Brothers.

Down the hall, I hear my youngest son swagger into the room where my husband is, playing with our daughter. “Dad,” says our young reader, “I want you to hear something …”