It was a late Sunday afternoon in October, and I was sitting with my two-year old on the living room floor, just me and her, our backs against the sofa.  The afternoon sun dimmed through the curtains, and I opened the book to the first page.  I pointed to the final touch I made to the book.  It was a big bold button with the words READ TO ME across the front.

Maddy’s eyes widened.  “What’s that say, Daddy?”

“It’s for you.”

Maddy pushed the button.  The book came to life!  It began reading to her.  She giggled.  For the next ten magical minutes, she was on a reading adventure, listening to the book, following the words as they lit up, and turning each page with childish exuberance.

When the book had finished, I got up and went into the kitchen to make us some lunch.  Upon my return, Maddy had propped herself onto the sofa, with the book sitting on her lap.  She had found her way to the front of the book and pushed the button again.

“Look Daddy, I’m reading all by myself!”

I stood in the doorway, excited and happy for her.  In that small moment, time stood still, and I finally felt it was all worthwhile.

.tkc