I have long entertained the fantasy that someday, I would spend cozy evenings with my loved ones, reading aloud from great works, or having them read aloud to the accompanying crackle of a fireplace. I want to be one of those parents that starts their kid on installments of the classics and keeps them entranced by worthy literature, chapter after chapter, night after night. I just never knew being a grown-up (at least chronologically) would bring all this responsibility, tedium and fatigue, getting in the way of my best-laid bookish plans.

My sweetheart and I read to one another by the flickering bluish glow of our monitors, largely… when we read anywhere else, we tend to fall asleep. And I don’t quite think the three-year-old is ready for Robinson Crusoe or Rudyard Kipling, yet.

When he is, though, I’ll be ready.