You should know right away that I peaked in kindergarten. My most distinct memory from that year (1989 or so) is of reading aloud for my teachers and them crowding around, very impressed by my five-year-old skills. You should also know that I don’t like attention. I remember feeling uncomfortable with their recognition, so I purposely stumbled over the word “Pilgrims,” even though I could read it with ease. I don’t remember what happened after that. Nevertheless, the die was already cast. Contrary to my little heart’s wishes not to be abnormal, I was in fact a Reader. Capital R.

What is a Reader? (Capital R?) It’s someone who doesn’t go a day without cracking a book. Who would rather curl up with a novel than watch Netflix or hang out with friends. Who has shelves and shelves of books that cause a giant headache when it’s time to move. Someone who’s already read all of their book club’s picks. Most importantly, it’s someone who needs to read. If you’re here now, I probably don’t have to explain that last part to you.

I would call my family a Reading family, my dad especially. Every night of his life he has sat in the living room, in his “fancy chair,” as the grandkids call it, listening to jazz or some offbeat album he’s found and reading until he’s ready for bed. It’s a comforting ritual for his family, I think. We know where Dad will be each night. He picks books up at yard sales and secondhand stores and usually gives them away when he’s done with them. Some of my fondest childhood memories involve reading with my dad. Patrick F. McManus’ silly, semi-fictional memoirs particularly stand out. But it was always less about the book and more about being with my dad.

Now I’m a mom of four, pushing forty. I have teenagers down to a preschooler. I still read like crazy, but the habit has mostly morphed into audiobooks and eBooks. This distresses me. I saw somewhere once that if you want your kids to read, then read. Let them see you doing it. That certainly makes sense with my dad’s example. The problem is, my kids can’t see me reading a book I’m listening to, and if I’m reading on my phone, I might as well be scrolling Instagram for all they know. I want to do better. Above all, I know that I can’t make them read. And I’ve definitely tried. To paraphrase Regina George, “Stop trying to make reading happen. It’s not going to happen.” That is, it’s not going to happen if mom is forcing it. And it’s not going to be a book mom suggested. At least not for my teenagers. I take comfort in the fact that for all my book-craziness, I do remember not reading terribly much in high school. Between work, social life, and homework, it took a backseat. But it eventually found me again and I know it will find them again, too.

Moody teenagers aside, we also have some ADHD and mild dyslexia in our family and one of the many things I’ve learned through that experience is that not everyone needs to be a Reader. Most people are going to be readers (lowercase r) and that is still a wonderful thing. I’ll keep my shelves full of books that are there for them when they’re ready. I’ll mix the graphic novels my third-grader brings home from the library with Roald Dahl and L.M. Montgomery and Beverly Cleary. (Oh, Ramona!) When my daughter rereads the dystopian series that her friend lent her for the third time instead of the beautiful copy of Little Women I bought her for Christmas, still uncracked, I won’t stress it. At least she’s reading! And I won’t worry over my four-year-old who can’t seem to learn his letters when his older siblings were reading sentences at the same age. Everyone has their own pace!

Of course, above all, I’ll keep on reading. For I, dear friend, am a Reader.

We met Abby and her husband during college, over 15 years ago. They moved into our cul-de-sac with their adorable baby boy and I instantly loved them all. She had been studying anthropology. We watched American Idol together every week (our guilty pleasure) and even started a book club (straight up pleasure). In the years that followed, we shared Thanksgiving meals, outings with kids, and many conversations about pregnancy and parenting. Abby and her family lived for a time on the Caribbean island of St. Kitts. I don’t believe she knows just how much I look up to her and admire her many talents. But she is aware that I’ve been praying we live in the same cul-de-sac in heaven.

tawnyember