Ten years ago today, I was rushed to the hospital in preterm labor. My first born wasn’t supposed to be born for another thirteen weeks (three months). But came he did, weighing only 2 lb 3 oz. He spent nine days on a ventilator, and ten weeks in the hospital. When he finally came home, it was to home oxygen and a mountain of medical appointments.
At seven months (developmentally he was the same as a four month old), he would sit intently on my lap while I read Dr. Seuss to him. It wasn’t until my later children would I learn that this wasn’t normal behaviour. After about fifteen seconds, they would start chewing on the book. Not so for my son.
By the time he started kindergarten, he could read and write. When I mean read, I’m not referring to a few sight words. I mean he could read his physiotherapist’s notes. We thought his teacher had taught him to read; she thought we had taught him. I guess being born wasn’t the only thing he was impatient to do.
Now in grade four, he’s recently been tested to read at a grade eight level. And like his previous years, he has no interest in toys. What he wants for his birthday and Christmas are books. Tons of books. Yes, a writer’s dream child.
So Happy Birthday Anton. And yes, the publishing industry loves you almost as much as I do.
Mom