Having a child is like playing the ultimate lottery. You have absolutely no idea what is going to happen, but you know that the odds of it being completely in your favor aren’t all that great.
When I first found out I was giving birth to a son, I despaired for a short time. I knew nothing about little boys, and I wondered what in the world I was going to have in common with this kid.
Of course, how stupid was that? I blame pregnancy hormones.
I am always surprised by the small ways my son reminds me of myself, and our love of reading is something that we share.
I’d placed a certain book in his bookcase a very long time ago, simply because I wanted him to read it at some point, and yet I didn’t want to put it somewhere I would forget when we moved a little over a year ago. Then I sort of forgot about it.
Until I opened his door one night and found himreading this. He had never mentioned to me that he had started reading it, and I (excited that he was finally reading it, but hoping he wouldn’t hate it) casually asked him if he liked the book.
“Oh yes, Mom!” he answered. “I think this is so funny, I’ve already read it a couple of times now. I love Miss Wormwood the best!”
That’s my boy.