Each time I interact with parents, I am struck by their high commitment levels. They are willing to spend any amount of time, money, energy, resources to ensure their children’s wellbeing.This poem comes as a gentle reminder to parents that in the midst of all the “big” stuff we schedule, “little” things count for just as much.

“You may have tangible wealth untold; caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be – I had a Mother who read to me.”

(Of course, it would be more appropriate to talk of The Reading Parent, though the poem only mentions the mother.)

The Reading Mother by Strickland Gillilan

I had a Mother who read to me, sagas of pirates who scoured the sea,
Cutlasses clenched in their yellow teeth, “Blackbirds” stowed in the hold beneath.
I had a Mother who read me lays, of ancient and gallent and golden days;
Stories of Marmion and Ivanhoe, which every boy has a right to know.
I had a Mother who read me tales, of Celert the hound of the hills of Wales,
True to his trust till his tragic death, faithfulness blent with his final breath.
I had a Mother who read me the things, that wholesome life to the boy heart brings
Stories that stir with an upward touch, oh, that each mother of boys were such.
You may have tangible wealth untold; caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be – I had a Mother who read to me.

Reading as a religion
At home there is much eye-rolling about my obsession with books. My teenagers explain to me, with exasperated sighs, that “reading is just a life-skill. It is not a religious experience that can cure cancer or grow limbs”. Oh, the joys of literate children!!%%&&!! But of course, they exaggerate. I have never claimed that reading can grow limbs.