Max is finally reading the Harry Potter series and really getting into it. This is after his recent affair with the Diary of a Wimpy Kid series, and after James and the Giant Peach and A Cricket in Times Square. I knew he would dig Harry. He tried before and couldn’t get into it, I don’t know why. This time he picked up the first book and hasn’t really stopped much at all.
I love this. I love that he’s loving something that I love, that I can talk to him about Professor Snape and Dumbledore, and that when he comes to me (like he did last night at 10:30), wide eyed with fear about Fluffy the three headed dog – I can know exactly what he’s talking about and how to calm his fears. I love that he’s feeding a hunger for the written word already, and that he’s becoming acquainted with characters and stories. The stories I read in my childhood are stories I still remember. Watching that unfold for Max is amazing.
On a separate note –
Ava is just like me.
She very much wants to be independent and no-nonsense, but she also has an overwhelming desire to know that you’re on her side. That you’ll always be on her side.
Take this morning, for example.
It’s Max’s spring break, so we’ve been taking it easy in the mornings this week. Getting up later. Staying up later. Watching more TV. This morning while we were getting ready, I told Ava to put on her shoes. She has these shoes, which she got some time ago and has never really worn, because when she got them they were too big. It’s been a while, so I thought we’d try again. I pulled them out and handed them to her, and she immediately puffed out her lip.
“But those make my feet hurt.”
“Well, it’s been a while since you wore them. Try them on and see if they fit better now. If they’re still too big, you don’t have to wear them.”
She put them on, grudgingly, and walked across the room. With every step, she piped back a sarcastic, “Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.”
Not picking this battle, I told her to go find her regular shoes. However, somewhere in the sarcasm and my relenting, she realized that she liked these shoes, they didn’t hurt her feet anymore, and she wanted to wear them. Basically, that I was brilliant.
“But Mom, they don’t hurt my feet anymore.”
“Too bad. You should have given them a chance before you pretended they did. Go find your shoes.”
“But I want to wear them!”
And off she went, stomping for all she was worth in the Hannah Montana shoes that didn’t hurt her feet. She came back in to the room with her regular shoes and sat as far from me as possible to put them on. She was totally going to make her point. I was mean, I was evil, and she wanted me to know it. She slammed her feet into her pink Skechers as hard as she could and breathed so audibly I wondered if she might be having an asthma attack.
I ignored her and concentrated on my I’m-waiting-on-everyone-else knitting.
The breathing stopped. She sat for a minute across the room. Max came in, talking about his book and asking me about something he needed clarified.
Then she erupted. A whirlwind of pink sneakers and blond bobbed hair streaked across the room and buried her face in my neck.
Then we went and got out some yogurt for breakfast.
I guess everyone needs reassurance that even when we act like an ass, the ones who love us the most … still do.