Watching My Son Read Brings Tears of Joy

My 7½-year-old son spent an hour and a half reading a book last night. The Fire Cat. It was all his idea.

My 7½-year-old son, who has an unidentified genetic syndrome, spent an hour and a half reading a book last night. He picked it off the shelf, sat on the couch and just started reading out loud. Slowly but steadily. We had never seen him do that before. He wouldn’t put it down until he had finished, three chapters and 63 pages later.

My 7½-year-old son, who has many, many learning challenges and an education plan 25 pages thick, spent an hour and a half reading a book last night. Whenever he misread a word, he eagerly, diligently worked to correct it. He didn’t look away. He didn’t give up. He didn’t resist in any way. We had never seen him do that before. Each time that he persisted in sounding out a word he didn’t know, my husband and I looked at each other across the room, surprised and so, so, so proud.

My 7½-year-old son, who has motor difficulties that drain his physical and mental energy, spent an hour and a half reading a book last night. We let him stay up an hour past his bedtime to read. We had never seen him do that before. Almost every night when we say, “Book or bed?” he responds without hesitation, “Bed.”

My 7½-year-old son, who is sweet and quiet and unassuming, spent an hour and a half reading a book last night. This was huge, and he knew it. He was beyond proud of himself. He probably wore that silly grin on his face all night. I probably wore one, too.

My 7½-year-old son, who has an adorable, silly sense of humor, spent an hour and a half reading a book last night. He laughed at the sound of the wordplay. I cried at the sound of his joy.

My 7½-year-old son spent an hour and a half reading a book last night. The Fire Cat is now my favorite book.

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