Reading with Dad
One of my fondest and earliest memories as a child was when I was about 4 years old. My dad and I were sprawled out on the living room floor while my mom worked at the dining room table. Dad had gotten out the Bible and was teaching me how to read. I don’t remember which translation it was, exactly, but I remember it had funny little stick-figure drawings. We read one of the gospels.
Two things amuse me about this now. First, that Dad was actually laying on the floor. Its the only time I ever remember him doing that. Second, that he was teaching me to read when English was his second language. It would have seemed logical that Mom would give the reading lessons.
Still, it must have worked. I was one of only two kids in my kindergarten class that could read. We would skip nap time and go to our own little desks and practice reading.