"Mom, could you read to me?" My son, who was suffering from a virus, was lying on the floor of our living room, where he usually went when he was sick. Fourteen years old might seem old for being read to, but appearing grown-up wasn't his priority at this point. He was looking for comfort, distraction and wanted to feel cared for.
I'd actually kept reading to him through his childhood and called it quits when we got into the preteen authority fight. When I read to him, I chose books that I loved, often books that he wouldn't have gotten through on his own. Saying that he didn't like the fantasy stories I'd adored myself at his age, he expressed an interest in nonfiction. Therefore, I put my own past preferences aside and looked for true stories that would grab his attention, and that he could read on his own. His shifting adolescent interest meant that the book I'd ordered for him yesterday was sometimes dismissed when it arrived, but I just put it aside for later. Its time might come around again.
Now, though, he was asking me again, and I was glad to do anything that might give him relief. The purpose was neither knowledge learning nor a display of authority. He was seeking rest for his unsettled mind and body, and by reading to him, I could see that it supported his healing, as surely as the hot lemon and ginger tea and getting plenty of sleep did.
I am sure that reading to my son has enhanced his school learning — his teacher has been amazed by his writing abilities —but more importantly, it has helped to make our bond stronger, giving us something in common to enjoy together. When the arguments and disagreements erupt, we can always come back to this simple activity of reading and listening, a union of souls that leaves us both completely free.