During the day yesterday, YA called me while I was at work.
YA: Do I need a library card to use the computers at the library?
Me: I’m not sure. Did you call to ask them?
YA: I’m there now. I don’t think I have a library card.
Me: I’m sure you do.
(Me rustling in purse)
Me: I have your card right here. Do you need the number?
YA: No – they gave me a temporary number.
This seemed innocuous enough until the real implications of the phone encounter hit me. I had her library card in my wallet because when she was a toddler and kindergartner, she didn’t have a place to keep her library card, so I held onto it. After all, back then, we were usually at the library together.
But if I still have her card, that means that since we quit going together (once she hit 2nd or 3rd grade), SHE HAS NEVER STEPPED FOOT IN A PUBLIC LIBRARY ON HER OWN.
Not having a reader for a child has been a hard pill to swallow. Obviously your children aren’t little models of yourself, but when they differ from you in a treasured part of your life, it takes some getting used to. I thought I had long ago come to this acceptance but yesterday’s realization was like that proverbial cold bucket of water. Ouch. If I was still in therapy we’d have to talk about this at my next appointment!
Any epiphanies recently? (Good or bad.)