Reading

As it turns out, Fiona can read.

I was surprised by this. Every time I sit down to read with her she tells me, “Mommy, I’m four. I can’t read. You read to me.”

So, I shrugged and started reading. Every time.

Until a couple of weeks ago, when we were on our way to the park. I was walking along side Fiona as she pedaled her big girl bike with the slightly wobbly training wheels. All of a sudden she stopped. I stepped into the bike and asked her what was wrong.

“Mommy,” she asked, “what’s an Open House?”

I frowned down at her sideways. I looked around us suspiciously. Sure enough at the end of the block was a large Caldwell Bankers sign reading “Open House”.

I felt my face twist into that parent-ally familiar frown of hey-wait-a-second-I’ve-been-had and explained the strange concept of allowing lots of people to walk through a house for sale. Still, I felt tricked.  This is the same child who insisted that she couldn’t read the word ‘car’ on the page of a book earlier that morning. I’ve never read an “Open House” sign to her before. The little turkey not only learned to read, she also learned to lie so she could get more stories out of me.

 

I can now insist that she read to herself at regular intervals. I’m nice though, I explained that I want her to practice reading but I’ll still read to her whenever she wants.

 

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