![]() ![]() Sometimes we read together on the couch and I’m about the happiest person alive when we do. Her favourite stories are real-life ones, but she reads whatever, now. And thanks to those books, she now loves to read other things on her own. I remember book s from my own childhood that I read into pieces. They are worn out and dog-eared and the spine is cracked and I adore looking at them. My kid has now read all three, one million billion times each. Sisters is actually book two in Raina’s series about her own life. Because she went and read the whole thing on her own. ![]() ![]() She’s an only child, and siblings are VERY interesting to her, so I thought, why not? I can read it to her, sure.īut then I didn’t have to. ![]() Then last year, when she was seven, she came to visit me in the bookshop I work in and saw a copy of Sisters by Raina Telgemeier on the shelf and asked me to get it for her. She’s always loved being read to, but reading on her own? Not so much. I ‘m not a kid, but now that I have a kid, I can see how that happens for her. (Note to self: check with my mum in case I was.) Now that I’m super old, I don’t really remember things from a long time ago, like: how old was I when I got into books? Did I always love reading? Was I good at it, or did I just like it a whole lot? I can’t remember a time before reading and writing was a massive part of my life, but it’s not like I was born with a book in my hand. ![]()
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