My eldest child is not a reader and it kills me softly a little bit every time I have to say this, hurts like a heartache. Yet, it has always been this way.
This child struggled for a long time with reading comprehension, still does. They never pick a book up to read unless they have to. It’s unfortunate. They’re missing out on so much. When they do read they often love it. We read Where the Red Fern Grows a few years ago and to this day they keep a copy in their rooms. It’s by far a favorite that they’ve read and reread.
My other child can’t read enough. We’ve struggled to keep up with their advanced reading level and appropriate reading material for their age. It’s a joy speaking to that one about books. I want to hold my oldest down and force them to read, to realize the enjoyment of an activity that enriches the mind with entertainment and often information.
Here’s the stinger, I can’t. We are all only ourselves and this child is no different. This child is old enough that I can say they likely won’t ever be a reader. Maybe through discipline and determination they will become an adult who reads because they know how much it does for their life, but they won’t ever love it like me or their sibling. That’s a hard pill to swallow but nothing I can do will change this.
Accepting people for who they are is a tough thing to do sometimes especially when it’s a beloved child and you’re just trying to make them a better person. For awhile now it has become obvious that this kid is bright but not academic. They like doing things with their hands, entertaining, talking. We’ve joked they’ll be in sales or the entertainment industry or some sort of big personality pursuit. For a quiet, insecure, introvert mom it’s hard to believe I created that. But here we are and the thing is like so many things in life when it comes to your kids all you hope is that at the end of it all they are happy, well adjusted, decent humans. The rest will figure itself out.