First Time Reading

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First Time Reader Before I even entered kindergarten, my mother, who had been a school teacher had me reading and doing arithmetic every day while my sister who was ten years older and my brother seven years older were at school. I remember the days sitting at the dining room table. I was only four and my little body was disproportional to the furniture. The chair was too low and the table too high. My book was on the table, and I strained to w view it properly from my position. I fidgeted a bit as I wondered why I had to do this. I could hear the dog outside. I wanted to play. I spotted my kitchen set in the next room. I wanted to play with it too. My mom was in the kitchen baking something that smelled much more appealing than reading. She must have been looking at me through the pass-through window, as she caught me in my daydream and reminded me that I was supposed to be reading my book. The cat ran away from the man. I had made up my own story in my head. The girl ran away from the table. She played with the toys. She was happy. I was a disappointment to my mother as far as reading went. It wasn’t that I couldn’t read it was that I never wanted to, and compared to my sibling who read every day, I was a letdown. It might not have been such a dilemma to any other parent, but to my mom who’d taught and encouraged kids to read for many years, it certainly was. It wasn’t until I started first grade that I finally started to appreciate some of my mother’s hard work. At the beginning of the year, everyone had to take a reading level test. I did well. I was able to use my reading skills. I would read to the class, I would read to my parents, I would read to my grandma, I would read to my brother and sister and I would read to my dog. Anything with ear was forced to listen to me read; it lasted about a week or two. I went back to life’s
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