Hank spends lots of time pretending to read and write simple words, which is fantastic, but nearly every moment of his waking hours he is asking me what words are -- if a word is real / how to spell a word/ what a word says. Please hold, I say, as I haul a giant load of laundry though the narrow hall, and then I can arrange magnetic letters with you. Wait a second I motion with one finger as I finish brushing my teeth. I'll be with you as soon as finish this conversation, I whisper. Can you go ask your brothers, please?
It's no wonder Hank is interested in books.
Sometimes I think I need to pinch myself. I have kids who like to read *and* write. Three growing boys who draw pictures and tell jokes and do the monkey bars, plus borrow books from the library and stay up past bedtime devouring them.
I know how I feel about their literacy is just a tiny paragraph in the giant book they are each writing of their own lives. And the constant barrage of How do you spells is kind of crazy-making. Still, I hope this chapter is long one.