The Other Me

Our local library is an easy walk away. Down the block, a right turn, a quick left, then right on the dirt road across a big field full of prairie dogs, that chirp at us as we go by. We have never had the luxury of living so close to a library and we are taking full advantage of it with several trips there every week.

For our youngest, now that school has started up again, I do a unit study approach in addition to his math, reading and language. From the library, we check out books on a certain topic that cover science or history or biography. We read them together, and do related projects. This week, we're studying clouds, next week, storm chasing.

On Monday, at the library, there was a mom with her son. She was patient, calm, and quiet with him. Not library quiet, gentle, peaceful quiet. Together, they searched and found several books to check out. I could imagine them snuggled on the couch, together at home, reading, talking, laughing, learning.

She watched while he played a reading skills game on the library's computer. He appeared to be older than the basic level reading he was doing on the computer. But she was patient. Calm. They sat close, seemed to be very close, not just in proximity, laughing, working together. She helped him sound out words, let him figure things out the long way, the slow way.



And I wished it was me, there with him, not the impatient, frustrated, fast-paced version of myself.