I can't lay claim to the blue eyes on this boy. I can't take credit for his light hair. I can only vaguely pat myself on the back for his burgeoning vocabulary.
His love for books, though, is another story entirely.
Growing up, my parents made a "no reading at the table" rule; otherwise I'd keep my eyes glued to a captivating chapter, passing up real life conversations with my family. (Unthinkable for this loudmouth, right?)
Give me a book long enough and I could survive a roadtrip anywhere. Looking out the window is for sightseers; I prefer a page.
Mac might wish otherwise when he realizes it's "uncool," but he loves to "read" already.
I like to watch him point at pages of dogs and babies and big red balls and tell me what they are. I love his ability to "speed read" by flip-flip-flipping through stories he already knows. I laugh when he carries one in his lap as we run errands, leaving his blankey behind for the comforts of a favorite board book.
I am comforted that, no matter whom he looks like, this child with his nose in a book is mine. And that bookworminess? It came from me.