Still, I love the act of making it. There are other things in our house like that too—quiet, repeated actions that don’t look like much at first. Not traditions, exactly --more like seeds, planted without fanfare, watered by routine, and left to do their thing while life keeps moving.
Reading is one of those. We’ve done bedtime stories since the kids were born. Sam’s just beginning to read on his own. He sounds out signs on the street, puzzling through fact books about coyotes and classic cars. Zoey can devour a chapter book before I’ve even had a chance to peek at the cover. Watching them both build their relationship with books is slow and satisfying, like watching roots take hold.
And for me, the shift has been in remembering to read. In the chaos of parenting and work and groceries and emails, I’d somehow forgotten how good it feels to finish a story. Lately I’ve been reclaiming that. I listen to audiobooks in the car (I’m deep in my mom-taxi era), and this summer, I left my laptop at home and brought two paper books on vacation. I finished them both. It felt indulgent, human and necessary, like something inside me exhaled.
This fall, both kids are playing rec soccer, which adds a whole new layer to our weekend calendar and also, bless it, a whole new lesson in patience. There’s the gear gathering, the snack assignment negotiation, and the sideline etiquette coaching for the grown-ups. But also, there’s that sweet and frustrating middle space they’re both in: wanting to be good, and not yet knowing how to get there.
It’s such a pure version of a feeling we never outgrow. The long stretch between aspiration and ability. They’re learning that you don’t magically wake up knowing how to pass the ball. That you miss more goals than you make. That the gap closes slowly, with practice, and that being in the gap is part of the deal.