Ian doesn’t want to read. He loves being read to, he just doesn’t want to do it himself. I’m of two minds. On the one hand, I was also worried that he wouldn’t crawl, walk, talk, count to ten, or eat an ice cream cone without using his ears. Still working on that last one.
On the other hand, we’re readers. We make weekly trips to the library. Ian has his own library card. I’m fairly sure the librarians are plotting to ambush me in Non-Fiction if I request just one more book by Alastair Reynolds.
We don’t have cable and don’t watch a lot of movies. Ian and I occasionally bond around Guitar Hero or Mario Kart. Last week we played Duck Hunt.
If this kid doesn’t start reading, what the heck is he going to do around here?
I’ve been busy at work lately, and the other day worked off my frustration by putting my son in a head-lock. He returned the favor by putting my nose in his eye. It wasn’t an accidental poke in the pupil or schnoz in the sclera. He put his hands to my face, and gently but firmly pulled me toward him until my nose was resting in the corner of his eye. Again and again and again.
And as my fingers played along his ribs and under his armpits, I asked Kelly, ‘Wanna go out for I-C-E C-R-E-A-M?’
Mid-squeal, Ian raised his head. ‘Ice cream?’