In the Middle of Rumpelstiltskin

I phoned my friend, Delma Atwell. She said she would get back to me. She was "right in the middle of Rumpelstiltskin" with her boys, Tim and Ted, and couldn’t be interrupted.

I admit. I was jealous. Her words transported me to the hours my children nestled on either side of me, eagerly anticipating every word of a favorite story. But, alas and alack . . . all my "Tims and Teds" have been independent readers for years and have no use for the lullaby of bedtime stories.

Our collection of worn-and-torn childhood favorites rests behind closed doors in the hall closet, waiting for the grandchildren to visit. Among them are books my children loved most; Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now, The Poky Little Puppy, Ferdinand the Bull, The Cat in the Hat and many more.

I recall the feeling of safety and wonder as my mother sat between my siblings and me and read The Teeny Tiny Lady, Little Brown Koko, The Three Little Pigs and on and on.

Did I read to my children enough? That depends. How much is enough? I tried to read to them every day, but I didn’t always succeed. All of them are good readers, if that’s the point. But fostering a love for reading is hardly the sole objective of storytime. Perhaps it isn’t possible to read to a child "enough."

I’d like to go back and hear the rhythm of my mother’s voice as she read the familiar "once upon a times" and "happily ever afters." I’d like to go back and hear my children correct me when I skipped a word or two of a favorite book.

All I know is this. You can talk to friends or finish the laundry or work on your list of things to do any day because you can always come back to friends and laundry and lists. They wait. But children don’t stay children. They grow up and go away.

I wish I had never been "too busy" for Rumpelstiltskin.