by Rachel Toalson | Crash Test Parents
Lately my family has been reading about global warming because we’re working on a big project to become more environmentally friendly. We’ve been watching documentaries, having discussions and brainstorm sessions, and reading stacks of books.
My kids are accustomed to reading books; we have several scheduled reading times in our home. It’s good for kids to have designated reading times—both read-aloud time and silent reading time. Research shows that reading aloud to kids not only builds their independent reading skills but also helps foster a love of reading in children. (Silent reading time does the same—plus reinforces the joy and importance of reading if a parent participates, too.)
Read-Aloud time is a great bonding time; sometimes, when you feel yourself out of step with your family, all you have to do is pick up a book and read it aloud.
It might look differently than you expect. In fact, here’s what it might look like when you sit down with your kids to read.
1. He’s standing on his head.
My sons love this little trick, and they will pull it out often. Don’t worry—they’re still listening. My sons have repeated word-for-word what I’ve read while they’re standing on their heads. It’s astonishing, given how much blood must be pooling in their brains. I wouldn’t be able to think straight if that were me. Not that I’d ever be able to get into a headstand position anymore.
2. He will open his own book and read and listen at the same time.
We have a strict policy in our house that if Mama or Daddy is doing the read-aloud time no one else has a book open. But every now and then our twelve-year-old will open a book and matter-of-factly tell us he’s listening in his subconscious. I beg to differ. This never flies.
3. He will have a million questions.
It never fails—as soon as I start my Read-Aloud time, my kids will have questions. Sometimes these questions are about the book itself, sometimes they’re, “May I please get a quick drink?” “What is 642 times 493?” (As if I even know the answer to that), or “What’s for dinner tomorrow night?” Kids have random brains. Sometimes they can’t help the questions that slip out unexpectedly.
4. He will want to control the pages.
Husband does the picture book reading most nights (because research also shows that dads reading to sons translates into love of reading more so than moms reading to sons), but sometimes he moves a little too fast for the listeners. Picture books have a lot going on in the illustrations, and oftentimes my kids will turn back a page in the middle of reading with unapologetic words: “Wait. Let me see that.”
5. He will ask for more.
Kids love stories, and they love the feeling of bonding with their parents through story. Even when you’re fully convinced there’s no way they could possibly have heard anything you said, they were listening and they want more.
And many times, you will, too—because stories are the same for everyone. They soothe, empower, repair, and impart joy.
Their shared moments become almost sacred.
(Photo by This is Now Photography.)
by Rachel Toalson | Wing Chair Musings
Lightning illuminates the window, like a scary film’s opening. Husband and I look at each other. We can already tell it’s going to be a bad one. Which means…
Knock knock knock
It begins.
Over the next half hour, they are in and out of our room, racing between the gaps of lighting and thunder. The rumbling crashes and echoes across the canyon in a way that makes it sound much worse than it actually is. The rain hisses and whips against the window, the wind picking up into what sounds like a dragon roar.
They are, predictably, scared. And though the knocking followed by kids announcing they’re scared (as if we don’t already know) starts to get annoying when my husband and I are ready to go to bed ourselves, I know that the announcement, the communal nature of this safe place, this bedroom where a mom and dad recline with books open on their laps, is a comforting place. I remember how terrifying storms could be when I was a kid. My mom would let my sister and brother and me sleep together in the living room, which was in the center of our house. I remember once sleeping in boxes, like we were camping in our own personal tents, but that memory might be inaccurate, something I constructed over an experience less exotic.
I used to dislike storms, and I still dislike driving in them. When I was a teenager I used to check the clouds to make sure there were no funnels, because I was terrified of tornadoes. Now I rarely worry about that sort of thing; San Antonio is not known for tornadoes. I’ve grown up, and storms are, if not calming, at least tolerable. But I remember enough to empathize with my sons, so patience does not feel like it asks too much tonight (though a sleep-deprived tomorrow might tell another story).
Eventually our sons go to sleep and my husband and I lie awake in our bed, the storm roaring and flashing outside our bedroom window. Both of us toss and turn, finding sleep close to impossible.
But maybe storms are not meant to be slept through.
Maybe they are, instead, meant to be enjoyed.
by Rachel Toalson | Poetry
I’m sorry
you find yourself
saying more often.
It’s because you’re emotional,
you cry at the least little thing,
your kids are looking at you
with those worried faces.
You apologize because you
feel guilty for worrying them.
You apologize because you
think you shouldn’t be crying.
You apologize because you
believe that’s what they need.
They don’t.
All they need is yourself,
all of it,
right now in this moment.
All they need is to feel
the never-ending
warmth of love,
still settling around them,
and even tears cannot carry
that away.
This is how
you love in spite of melancholy.
This is an excerpt from the book of poetry, this is how you live, available in both ebook and paperback form.
(Photo by Marco Ceschi on Unsplash)
by Rachel Toalson | Poetry
Life doesn’t always
make the least bit of sense.
Sometimes you can predict
how your efforts will go,
sometimes you’re surprised
by an unexpected word or
gesture or look and
your whole world turns
on a fidget spinner before
coming to rest in a place that looks
both like and unlike where
you were standing moments ago,
a place that is the same but
brighter
clearer
lovelier
The hole fills up
the clouds burn away
the sea calms
You never know
when it will get better;
you may as well stick around
for when it does
This is how
you keep holding on.
This is an excerpt from the book of poetry, this is how you live, available in both ebook and paperback form.
(Photo by Cherry Laithang on Unsplash)
by Rachel Toalson | Wing Chair Musings
He languished by the lamp, head drooping, book in his hand. I sat beside him. “You feeling okay?” I said. I already knew the answer, but I wanted to hear it from him.
He didn’t even speak; he only shook his head. I could feel the heat radiating from his skin; he had all the outward signs of the flu.
I took him in my arms, let him rest his head against me. The possibility of contagion doesn’t bother a mama whose son is battling sickness. So though I was the only one in my house who hadn’t gotten a flu shot this year, I rocked my son because he needed me.
I read stories. I rubbed oils on his chest. I let him sleep in my arms—because he is getting bigger and he will not always allow me to do this. I held him as long as I could, as long as he needed.
And though I am glad my son does not suffer from sickness often, or sickness that is terminal, I enjoyed the time I had with a four-year-old who didn’t feel like bouncing out of my arms before I was ready.
I soaked up the moment, which lasted only two days.
Today he is racing in and out of rooms, flinging flowers at me, trying to find where he put his shoes so he can go out back and sword fight with sticks.
The smell of him clinging to my shirt.
