Tonight, my son read to me.
We'd finished our usual bath/tooth brushing/chart routine, and he ran off to get a book. You see, every night, we read a story. together. Usually it's one parent per son, and the boys rotate between us. It is one of my favorite parts of the day. They choose a story, we find a cuddly spot in the house, and then we curl up to read together.
But tonight...he brought out Olivia. We sat down on the green couch, and I reached for the book. But he didn't hand it to me. Instead, he said, "Mama, I want to read to you tonight."
My natural inclination was to shout, "Wahoooo!! That's great buddy! You'll do a great job!" and make a big deal of it. But this kiddo? That's too much pressure. I knew I had to play it cool. So instead, I replied, "Ok."
And he leaned into my shoulder, opened the book, and began to read. Word for word. A couple stumbles and guesses, but almost perfect. And when he got to the last page, he proclaimed himself too tired to finish. So I read the last one.
He did it. The eyes were sparkling. The satisfied, smug look was upon that little face. And then he raced his brother off to bed.
He's been reading to his little brother in bed for a while now. And often when we read, he and I will alternate pages. But this was a first. He came, wanting to read to me. To me.
And it was amazing.