Once upon a time in a suburb not so far away, there was a mom. She was a new mom, an overly anxious mom who wanted so desperately to be doing the rightthings, making the rightchoices for her brand new baby boy. She had ingested enough online mommy forums to know she was destined to fail her child spectacularly. And unfortunately, her second child had not come along yet to teach her about zero f*cks.
So that mom who spent most of her childhood sprawled on the floor of the Hansen public library did what she knew best. She read to her son.
She read while rolling her eyes during “Good Night Moon” because who says goodnight to a spoon and god damn it she was tired.
She read while sobbing through “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always” because why doesn’t that book come with tissues and oh my god, you mean my son one day is going to leave me and I’m going to die????
She read while the books changed to “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” and “Dogman” and she read while thinking that she didn’t remember him being so big yesterday.
And now that baby boy isn’t so young anymore. She’ll see him quietly reading in the sunlight at her breakfast table. He’ll be reading alone, no longer needing her for every word on every page comfortable and confident doing it on his own. Wasn’t that her goal? Should it feel so bittersweet? She’ll realize in that quiet moment she isn’t a perfect mom, but that she’s doing just fine with that baby boy of hers.