When I was younger, my mom was a voracious reader. Her love for reading continued to increase as she got older. It has always been a source of entertainment for her that she has felt strongly about. She can read two or three books a week even though she balances a hectic work and family schedule. As I look back at it now, knowing my mom’s love for reading, everything related to reading, while I was a child, makes sense. Before I even started to read myself, my Mom would read to me. The popular requests by me at bedtime were normally “I Love You Stinky Face” by Lisa McCourt and “Where The Wild Things Are” by Maurice Sendak. My mom never cared how many times we read these books as long as she knew I  enjoyed them each time.

The earliest memory I can recall of reading by myself was when I was very young. My mom bought a huge box of Bob Books that contained an average amount of 4 words per page to teach me how to read. The words would be related on each page with the same ending sounds including -at, -ot, -in, etc.  Each sentence on the pages would also start the same way as it ended. For example, “Matt had a cat”. My mom was always there, eager to help me out when I could not sound out a word. I remember being so proud of myself when I could read through an entire one of those books without help. But even more clearly, I remember my mom’s excitement when I finished a book.

Even though I started to be able to read by myself at a certain point, my literacy journey with my mom did not stop. When I was in second grade my mom, sister, and I started to write our own book. The title of this book was “Gross Ella”. It was inspired by the dirty habits of my sister and I. This book, although slightly about me, opened up a completely new world. This new world was creative writing. Even though by the time I was in second grade I had not yet been writing complete stories, I realized that I was capable of being able to make up stories of my own. Writing this book was an activity that despite my family being so different from each other, we were able to come together and create. Through this experience of writing a book (that was never seen by anyone but our family), I discovered my love for using my imagination and putting my thoughts together to create something for everyone to enjoy.

That love though for reading and writing didn’t necessarily last forever. For every year in school I spent, I realized the demand for reading and writing increased. I used to love to read and write but what destroyed this love was mandatory reading and writing assignments. When I first entered high school the idea of needing to read for analysis was new to me. I quickly learned through multiple English classes that Freshman year wasn’t the only time I would need to do so. These types of assignments were what I placed blame on for my newfound “hatred” of reading and writing. I would come home every night and complain to my mom about what I “had” to read and what I “had” to write. Of course, my mom, being the devoted reader she is, encouraged me to look past the mandatory tasks and instead enjoy what I was reading.  

Even though I have gone through some ups and downs with my reading and writing experiences, my mom’s love for reading has always remained constant. I can still find her sneaking upstairs to my parent’s room to read when it gets dark while I am occupied by something else. My mom’s love for reading has continued to encourage me to search for my love of reading once again. And no matter what, I will always cherish my memories while reading and writing with my mom.