He had to bring it to the dinner table. It was not an option. He was engrossed, telling his own story as he looked carefully at each and every illustration. Struggling to keep the book in the right spot as he turned the pages, the pages so big in his little hands. He didn't eat much dinner (he rarely does) but he was at least with us at the table that evening. A small success for us in the grand scheme of things.
And who was I to make him put down his book?
I couldn't. At that moment, in him, I recognized myself. The book worm, eager to get my hands on anything with words. The child whose imagination grew with every turned page. The girl who couldn't get enough of worlds that were captivating and seemed somehow possible.
Who was I to make him stop?
There's no way. While it might not be polite, the occasional book at the dinner table will be tolerated, if not encouraged. Especially when shared with enthusiasm and curiosity with his dinner dates.
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Please visit Emily at Chatting at the Sky for more Tuesday’s Unwrapped. You’ll find simple moments and simple mysteries unwrapped in everyday life. Enjoy!
