I’ve been reading to my son. It still feels strange to say it ‘my son’, when I don’t feel anywhere near grown up enough to be someone’s mother. But I am, and so that means that I get to put tiny feet into tiny socks (and wipe a neverending supply of grime from tiny nails and tiny fists), that I get to read and sing lullabys (sometimes for three hours straight, sometimes at 3am after only getting to bed at 2). It’s the most spectacular thing though, I want to gorge on every second with him before he grows up. These two months feel like no time and a lifetime. It’s also my current excuse for gaps between blogging, but I’ll be back on track soon.
During the day we read board books – The Gruffalo, Mutt Dog,Olivia and many others. But at night we read a chapter from a longer book. We’re through the first book in Winnie-the-Pooh (did you know there’s only two??) and we’ve only got one chapter left of The BFG (that’s for tonight). No doubt there’ll be people out there who can’t see the point. But one of my earliest memories (alongside the mural of the jungle that was on my wall in the house we lived in until I was one) is my dad reading to me. Not picture books, but Moby Dick and then The Hobbit. I’ve got no idea what happened in Moby Dick, and The Hobbit became familiar to me later in life. But I’ll never forget storytime, finding magic in pages and being read aloud to by my dad. Hopefully Fox won’t either.