chapter one

Hank continues to reverse into an empty lap the way all of our children have done, bottom first and book in hand.
There are six of us here who can read with him, and he knows that any of us will stop what we're doing to engage his request.

He is very happy on his own too, imitating a pretentious stage reader. He comes upon books left on the floor and settles down cross legged to examine them, from Greek mythology to Good Night Moon. He grabs the edges of pages and flips at random for several seconds, never looking up, all the while running a loud low-pitched tone, like an aged generator.

Sometimes if we're feeling really ragged, which let's face it, is lots of the time, I default to books. I pull Hank close to me and we read, like I did when his siblings were overstimulated toddlers and exhausted preschoolers, like I’ve been doing their whole lives.
Sometimes I imagine the boys grown up and employed, calling me from work, overwhelmed and aggravated, and I wonder if I'll remember to pull out something like Little Blue Truck or Harry Potter and begin reading.