Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
“Still not in the mood to talk about it?” Dad cautiously questions prior to cutting into his dinner.
A small headshake is presented on a forkful bite of the now cheese-covered dish.
“What about work?” Mom adjusts her wine glass at the same time she changes topics to something that may actually interest her. “How is it? Have you been promoted yet?”
“Mom, there is no promoting, remember? I’m as high up as I’m gonna go.”
Being a librarian at an elite preschool is honestly my dream job! Doesn’t sound like it would be – and for most people it isn’t – but it’s everything I love all rolled into one very nerdy, very book-filled career. The place isn’t at all like your average daycare. It’s more like a child college for lack of a better term. It’s a private academy that’s geared towards those with lots of money to throw at their child’s education. It’s a learning organization that offers your precious ones art classes designed and written by those with degrees in the field, musical classes by the future composers of our time or past award-winning ones looking for a different pace in life, as well as gourmet meals that borderline on haute cuisine yet kid friendly enough to still be devoured like they’re a run of the mill basic PB&J. I’m lucky enough to work at one of the most unique and innovative institutions for early child development in the entire country. You’re probably wondering what do I do exactly, right? Well, I’ll tell you, and hopefully it sticks better for you than it does my mother. You see, it’s my responsibility to pick the books we keep on the shelves, coordinate with the owner/director, Presley Morrison, about the ever-changing curriculum, and travel from classroom to classroom reading stories to help drive a literary passion. The older afterschool kids, I occasionally help with additional homework if their teacher, Sienna O’Hara, sends them to me, which she typically does. She doesn’t like doing the homework portion of her job. She prefers the fun science experiments, the cooking projects, and crafting things with them from her own Ojibwa – or Anishinaabe – heritage. While I don’t love her pawning them off on me, I do love getting her feedback on Native books to include in the book fairs that are also my responsibility. On top of those things – as if those aren’t enough – I also run the book drives – collecting books to donate to single parents in lower financial brackets – and our twice a month book club. One is for the children to attend with their parents, which is basically just a book they’re given each month to read weekly with their kids before coming to me at the end of the month where I’ll read to them the same book while they enjoy refreshments. It’s meant to be a bonding exercise as well as to build healthy reading and studying behaviors between adult and child – or in too many cases nanny and child. The other book club is for adults only that are looking for ways to socialize with other parents – or again nannies – without the crutch of their children. Basically, the English degree everyone swore would never be useful – mother included – got me a life that revolves almost non-stop around books. Combine that love with the other – kids – and yeah. Doing what I do is nothing short of a dream come true.
“You could always look into switching to an actual private academy or even a boarding school.” Mom’s head tilts in a judging fashion. “You would probably make more money and be able to work your way into administration where you belong.”
“I belong right where I am,” I promptly argue, fork being gently placed down. “And I know it drives you crazy that I’m not a supervisor or in any type of management position, but I’m happy, Mom. And I love what I do. Hearing kids like Sylvie, this sweet, mousy, four-year-old with coke bottle glasses read books like Green Eggs and Ham all on her own brings to me more joy than any amount of zeroes on a paycheck ever could.”
To my surprise, she flashes me a small smile. “That was the first book you learned to read.”
“Dr. Seuss was basically a drug dealer in this house,” Dad teasingly adds. “She always needed another hit of One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish and Fox in Socks.”
“Hop on Pop,” Mom promptly contributes.
“There’s a Wocket in My Pocket.”
“Don’t forget Oh, the Places You'll Go!”
Warm giggles are given on a minor blush. “I read that one to my graduating pre-k kids every year.”
“You were addicted to Dr. Seuss,” she happily coos.
“Addicted to reading in general,” my father says between bites of his dinner, mirth heavy in his tone. “I didn’t hate it, though. Afterall, there were worse things for a three-year-old to be obsessed with.”