Most days, I am the first one awake in our household. This has been the case nearly since the children were born, when I began to cherish each peaceful moment I could sneak into the increasingly chaotic and unpredictable life of being Mom. The first hour after my alarm goes off – when it is just me, a cup of coffee, and my work – is often my most productive and focused time of the day.
On weekends, though, I often stay in bed until the children find me. (This is generally somewhere between the crack of dawn and when most people without kids arise. But probably closer to the crack of dawn.) Despite repeated past experience, I continue to think that I will enjoy a quiet cup of coffee and some reading with three children milling about in close proximity. Normally I am half reading while also answering endless questions about seemingly unrelated and irrelevant things.
Last Saturday morning, though, there was a breakthrough. It was so astounding, so peacefully unprompted, that I tried not to dwell on it, lest it all dissolved into noise and madness, which is normally what happens when I take note of these harmonious moments. Two of my children reclined on opposite ends of the same couch, quietly reading books they’d brought home from school. The littlest one sat at the table in the big window, contentedly drawing with her well-used crayons.
I sipped my coffee and read a magazine undisturbed. Surely this is a fluke, I thought. Then came Sunday morning’s story hour, and a repeat performance Monday (the first day of school vacation), then Tuesday, then Wednesday. And I dared to dream this is the new morning normal.
Just because the children begin the day reading together does not, of course, mean our house is a peaceful oasis of constant accord. These days that start with sibling story time still include arguments about toys and drama surrounding who will sit where and complaints about how unfair the rules are. But there’s a different tone to a day that starts off with quiet togetherness, and this emerging routine has been a happy surprise.
There have been shelves full of books in our house since before there were children here, and we are constantly adding to the kids’ book collection and weeding out no-longer-needed stories to make room for newer models. Board books have given way to picture books with more words, and these are gradually evolving to books with chapters and very few images. We have always read together, but increasingly the children are reading on their own, to themselves and each other.
They read tales about fairies and goblins, time travel to mystical lands, the adventures of orphaned children and dragons and rescued dogs. They pore over nonfiction books, soaking up new information and relishing true stories of animal heroes and people who lived in other times and places.
Many nights, well after I’ve tucked the children in, I’ve had to remind them to turn off the reading lights and go to sleep. Even the littlest one, who is still learning to sound out words and would rather be read to than read alone, looks through a book each night after she is kissed goodnight.
One night, a few months ago, my husband and I heard the muffled voices of the older children well past bedtime, broken every few minutes by the thump of something hitting their bedroom floor. Turns out they were taking turns reading to each other. One would finish a chapter and chuck the book across the room to the other, who would repeat the process.
Sometimes now when I ask for help completing a chore the response is a distracted, “Just a minute, Mom. I’m really into my book.” I’m not sure if this is a book-loving mother’s dream-come-true or the cunning of her children, who know reading is one of the few excuses that will buy a bit of time before doing chores or an extra few minutes with the light on after bedtime.
I know how it is to be sucked into a book, into a different time and place with characters who are both foreign and familiar, into a story so good it’s all-encompassing. I have been known to read while I am cooking dinner or brushing my teeth, and definitely well past my own bedtime. If I have an important project or big assignment due, I will often wait to start a new book for fear that I will become so engrossed in the story I’ll be too distracted to concentrate on work.
I understand that it is hard, sometimes, to put down the story and return to the world beyond the book cover. So I will often allow the children time to finish the page or the chapter, to languish in the story of the day a few minutes more before chores or dinner or bed. And this new morning ritual of sibling story time is fine by me, however long it lasts. Breakfast can wait.
Original content by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul, posted to her Blog: Writings From a Full Life. This essay also appears as Meghan's Close to Home column in the April 24, 2015 edition of the Littleton Record.