Last night my two-year-old daughter went to bed early. She was shattered and was asleep before we had finished reading the Maisy book that she had chosen.
When it came to 6.30pm my four-year-old son had his bath and hopped into clean pyjamas. But he was worried about waking his sister up if we went into their bedroom to read as we sould usually do. So as a rare treat he came into Mummy and Daddy's room. We snuggled on the bed, covered our feet with the blanket and laid on our tummies, side by side, the book spread out in front of us.
We looked at every page in detail. We talked about who wrote the book and who drew the pictures. We imagined the studio where the illustrations were devised. We talked about the front page and the back cover. We make sound effects and put on funny voices. We relished every single page, talking about everything, pointing and laughing, imagining and dreaming. We cuddled up, our shoulders touching, as he invented a story with him as the hero. I felt so proud and emtional to see his imagination developing so well and to see him growing up.
He was tired when we had finished and I carried him to his bed. As I tucked him up he said "Mummy, can we do that again tomorrow before bed?" His experience had been so special that he wanted to repeat it, to cherish it.
And the funny thing? I don't even remember what book it was that we read. It wasn't important.
3 comments:
Jane, that is so sweet! What a good ending to the day! Thank You for posting that, it reminds me that we need to change up our reading routine every once in a while and do something special! So Sweet, he will probably remember that forever!
I totally agree! It doesn't matter what's being read. It's the time spent that leaves the memories of being read to. Thanks for sharing that.
What a beautiful story! Again, thanks for sharing.
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