I wish I could take a picture without disrupting the moment, but see if you can imagine this:
My three year old, a tiny big girl, sits on the couch, a Dr Seuss copy of "One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish" perched on her denim jeans clad legs. Her toes peek out from where her feet rest on the ottoman, hot pink socks covered in flowers, the heel and toes a bright purple. They match her sweatshirt which -- if the hood was up -- would show off a kitty face to complement the paw pockets. My preschooler's head is tipped intently, the blonde edge of her bob haircut kissing her jawline. Her rose petal lips curve to a smile, blue eyes scanning the drawings and words as her still toddler chub fingers carefully turn page after page.
Occasionally, there is a burst of small child sound: "He likes to cook in his nook cook book" and "this one has a little star" and "Hello? Hello? The mouse has cut the line... goodbye."
Just yesterday, she crawled into my lap with this same book, snuggled into my arms, and told me she wasn't ready to read by herself. She just couldn't. And tonight, here she is, accidentally reading the story to me.
I love to listen.