papa's day

 

I keep thinking about kids and language development, ever since my last post. Last night, I was cheek to cheek with Frances, reading poems from Old Possom's Book of Practical Cats and watching my husband wrestle with Gabriel while rhyming silly made up words, tickling his tender growing mind and body in a beautiful all-mixed-up kind of way. Halfway through the tale of Jennyanydots, I realized something. Mike is our family's deepest well of words. He models love and care of language - for all three of us - like no one else.  

I went to work when Frances was three months old, and Mike stayed home to take care of her. We were in a new place, and I was starting a new job. It wasn't so very unlike what I went through when we moved to Annapolis shortly after Gabriel was born, which is to say it was pretty hard. Mike and Frances took a lot of long walks, becoming acquainted with every homeless person in Lancaster City (at least by sight) and making occasional stops at coffee shops. I can imagine the two of them now, Frances napping in her stroller, parked next to Mike reading intently at a cafe table. 

It's hard to say why exactly, but I know those early days together had a profound impact on Frances's relationship to books. Her papa was always reading, and when he wasn't reading silently to himself, he was reading aloud to her. From the time she was born, she heard anything and everything (including the New Yorker, in gentle tones, during her infancy). 

I read a study once that concluded whether children see their parents reading is even more determinative than being read to themselves when it comes to predicting who will become a reader in adulthood. I sometimes tease Mike about his ability to read philosophy, novels, magazines - anything - in the middle of a room filled with loud, chaotic children. But I see now, more and more as our children grow, how much they admire and emulate his relationship to books. They sometimes climb up on the couch with a big book (Merriam-Webster Children's Dictionary is a good one) and quietly study each page, looking remarkably like their papa.

But I don't want to suggest that Mike's relationship to language is merely studious. He is a great lover of poetry, rhyme, hip hop and rhythm, and will flawlessly recite lyrics learned watching Yo MTV Raps in 1989 at the breakfast table with infectious glee. He freestyles to the kids about getting ready for bed. He plays rhyming games with Gabriel, taught Frances the concept of metaphor at age 3 using fabulous examples, and happily encourages me in my every writing endeavor. Things get serious when it comes to grammar, and sometimes I get grumpy and limply protest his corrections, but the kids' pride never seems to get in the way with that stuff. They want to know. Because besides being a model reader and lover of language, Mike is a gifted teacher. I watch him teach the kids in awe. He is patient, he is steady; he excites their passion for learning about the world.

A good man is hard to find. A good man who is also a loving, strong papa and an excellent giver of words is that much harder to find. This little family of mine is a wonder. Happy Father's Day, Mike.