The Triumph of Time
by Sarojni Mehta-Lissak

Reading, for me, has at times been a slippery endeavor, often insatiable, seldom steady, always variable.  Genres in which I have found myself could shift suddenly and unpredictably like a snake slithering through the sand, these twists and turns taking me on a gamut of literary explorations.

Even as a child, I skated a figure eight, gliding between fiction and nonfiction, yearning to know the truths of life, but then going back to my favorite book of all: The Boxcar Children.  Here, runaway siblings chilled milk in a babbling brook and called "home," an empty boxcar.  A tale, no doubt, pulling at my own wanderlust instincts.

Sadly, these stories and the Little Golden Books of my youth came and went long, long ago.

It wasn't until my husband and I adopted our daughter in 1995 that I found myself back in a genre of books that had been put to rest with my old sock monkey, the ever-burgeoning category of children's books.  I hadn't stepped foot in this territory since I was a child and had no idea where to begin except to start perusing the shelves of the library on my hands and knees, looking for books that would hold my interest as well as my daughter's.

After poring over the skinny titles with my head cocked like a parakeet, I would choose not one, not two, not three, but stacks and stacks of books, piled up like pancakes on the plate of my hand.  With a smile and a nod from the children's librarian, my daughter and I would exit the library with eager anticipation to rush home and start reading.  These visits were special, the building blocks for her future, a future that would be filled with good reading skills, good writing skills and, of course, a love of books.

Though the power of the printed word was what I relied on while reading to my daughter, it was the power of the illustrations which pulled her in, taking her deeper into the story line.  These artistic renderings brought the words to life, keeping her eyes captivated while my spoken sentences kept her mind active and alert.  I knew I had a voracious reader in the making until her 3rd grade teacher told me that her reading skills were not at "grade level" and that she would need to go to summer school.

 I was mortified.

How could all the years of reading, all the trips to the library, all the children's story times, result in this, a child who was struggling with reading?  It was impossible, a blow to my motherly ego, a slash through my educator's heart.  But with quick resolve, my husband and I decided that indeed, summer school was important if it could help her in any way.

We told our daughter that she needed to go to summer school because they had a "special" reading program, one that would be fun with lots of books!  She immediately blurted out how she hated to read and couldn't stand sitting around in a classroom when she'd rather be at home playing with friends or frolicking at the beach.  Another slash to my heart.  But it only increased my level of resolve, even if she were just saying that to get out of going to summer school (as if it would work!).  Still, it hit a nerve in me that wasn't going to be soothed until I saw that she showed an interest in reading, the kind of interest that would be initiated by her, not by me.

And so she went to summer school for six weeks, albeit grudgingly.  The days turned into weeks until finally her session was over and the teacher said she had passed the necessary benchmarks.  I felt relieved, though a bit suspicious if it had all been worth it, until I began to notice a change.

When we would make our weekly treks to the library, she would start to carry her own platter of books while walking up and down the aisles.  I would lose her for long periods of time while she was perusing the shelves.  It was a wonderful and magical transformation.  Something had clicked, the door had opened and it wasn't me who was pushing her through it.  Alacrity had set in and my faith started to soar.

This new momentum would propel her into her own future of literary explorations. The frustration I had once felt about having a child disinterested in reading began to fade away, and a renewed faith developed within me that I had indeed, always been on the right track by exposing her to books, words, signs and anything that would help develop literacy.

The years of outings to the library and the many bedtime stories had truly proven to be the building blocks for a quiet and dormant skill that would awaken only when she was ready.

Since that summer, we still make our regular visits to the library and she's now branching out to other genres of books besides Mary-Kate and Ashley.
The stacks are as tall as her nightstand and I wonder how she'll ever make it through them in the three weeks she's allowed to have them. But somehow
she does.  At any given time I can find her reading a book, getting lost in the power of the print, sometimes to the point of distraction, keeping her from her household responsibilities or even getting ready for school.

On one particular morning, she had been quiet, unseen.  I didn't hear the familiar sounds of drawers slamming, water running, whistling, singing or talking to the cats.  When she came into my bedroom at 8:20 in the morning with her pajamas still on, I looked down at her with angry, glaring eyes and said, "What have you been doing?  It's 8:20!  You know we have to leave the house in five minutes!"  She looked up at me incredulously, and with the utmost sincerity said, "But Mommy, I just finished my book, that's the important thing."  And with that statement, my shoulders relaxed, my anger melted away and my heart became greatly satisfied; for the value of reading was simply more important than being on time that day, and that was the important thing.

Sarojni Mehta-Lissak's work has appeared in numerous print and online publications including; Wild Violet, Midwifery Today, Moondance.org, Mothering, MotherVerse, Adoption Today and others. Please visit her website at: sarojnimehta-lissak.com.

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