A Necessary Sacrifice or Literary Deliverance

It all started when I came to pick up Eli from preschool one day. They have story time the last twenty minutes of school. I sat and waited for the student teacher to finish reading the book for the day. Monotone, deadpan, lifeless are words that came to mind. I'm not talking about the occasional stumbling over a word, which I can understand. (Hey, it's no piece of cake reading a book sideways and upside down) Nope, this was a travesty. I tried not to visibly cringe. Because she's young. (I'm getting old enough that I can say that) And clueless. And doesn't have children of her own. And apparently doesn't have or has lost that spark of interestingness that makes life worth living. Or worth reading books out loud at any rate.

But I digress. A few days later I noticed a sign up for parents to come and read to the class. Between my time at the gym and the daily minimum requirements that (barely) keep our household functioning, I'm full up with things to keep me busy. So, I get all shy when I see sign ups lying around... innocently beckoning... inviting me to deliver these poor ignorant children from the seductive clutches of lukewarm read-out-loud performances. In the end, I considered it an act of necessary sacrifice.

So this morning I arrived a few minutes early with some of our family's favorite picture books tucked under one arm. I had to come straight from the gym. Good thing children haven't developed olfactory senses. I normally just avoid coming within a three foot radius of anyone until I get a shower. But this wasn't about what I smelled like, or what condition my hair was in. This was about literary deliverance.

I started with Amos: A Story About A Dog and His Couch. Then we made our way through Tuesday by David Wiesner, and finally Don't Let the Pigeon Stay Up Late! by Mo Willems. I would say without equivocation that four year olds are the cutest creatures on God's green earth, but I'm pretty sure I said that about five year olds when Caleb was five, and about three year olds when Eli was three, and to be honest I'm fairly smitten with the occasional nine year old as well. Maybe it's rapt children that I adore, their eyes big as saucers, with their little mouths hanging open... smeared with ketchup or speckled with crumbs. So. Stinking. Cute. Some people call that innocence. But I think it's just sheer, raw life packed into little bodies. It's the same thing that makes them throw fits and bounce off the walls on a rainy day. They just have extra that bubbles out sometimes.

The student teachers begged me to come back. The kids acted like I was Santa Claus in leggings and a ponytail. Nothing like an adoring audience to make your day.

I surprise myself when I do anything well with children. Which should sound a little weird. I'm a mom. I teach kids all day long every day, at home and at the gym. And I'm pretty good at it. I still don't see myself as a kid person. I'm not patient enough. I'm selfish. And perhaps it's inevitable because I have the example of my own mother always before me and I will never be what she is and was for us. But this morning filled me up. With life. Thank God for children in my life.