It is officially summer. I know it already. It has been the same for many years. I know he doesn’t want to read. I know that he will not choose to read on his own- he always chooses not to. Even at 16, I still have to cajole him into going to the bookstore with me. Walking around, he looks at his phone, ignoring all the books on the shelf, daring me to suggest a title, so he can just refuse. His older sister is joyfully picking stacks of books. I have to tell her to just choose two for now. She offers her brother The Westing Game. It is just because she knows he might take it because it is thin. He walks around with it in his hand- bending the soft cover. After a while, we walk by the aisle of adult humor books. He looks. At eye level, front over out, he picks up I Hate Myselfie– the only book in the 20 minutes we’ve been in the store that he actually chooses to touch. Really. Like there isn’t enough for me to worry about? Is he doing that on purpose? Is it because I asked him to go to a bookstore? He places it back on the shelf. Whew. He comes to I Can’t Make This Up by Kevin Hart. He picks it up and pages through it while I try not to let him notice I see him.
“I think I want to read this one,” he says. I don’t even care if it is not appropriate. We buy it and take it to the car. When we get home I think he will go back outside, back to the trampoline. Instead, he grabs the book out of the bag and says,
“I think I am going to read it now.”
I’ll take it as a win.