I love to read. Since elementary school books have taken me to amazing places. So when I became a mom I was certain I’d pass this love of books onto my kids. My late-husband was the same way. He even went to so far as to think through whether our firstborn son’s name would sound good as an author, “J.S. Buell? Yeah, I can see that on a dust cover.”
I have four amazing kids. Each one is unique and gifted in his or her own way. When it comes to reading, only one of them seemed to excel at it on his own. My first born took to reading like a pro. But three of them, for one reason or another, struggled with it. My youngest didn’t mind it but hated that it didn’t come easy. So this week when I awoke to find her up on a summer morning, without the TV on, curled up with a new book, my heart soared.
This wasn’t something I could force on her. I could push her and schedule reading time, but until it clicked, it just wasn’t something she wanted to do. It was a battle and I didn’t want to make reading a battleground. I could provide space and tools but as much as I wanted, I couldn’t magically fix her struggle with reading.
Sometimes as much as we’d like to, we just can’t fix it for them.