Two MenMy firstborn, a seven-year-old son and my husband’s namesake, is a pretty good kid. In fact, since I’m his mom and haven’t yet bragged on him in this weblog, I have to say that he’s more than “pretty good”; I was just trying to be humble that first time I said it. He’s gentle and kind with his sisters, not provoking them to too much wrath. He’s rooting for a brother just so he can have someone to share his room with. He’s not a sissy and often takes the initiative with work. And though he is yet only the tender age of seven, I have someone that I can really depend on. He’s done a few foolish things in his time, but he is not a fool. His nightly prayers for wisdom are being heard.

But I’m writing to say that I give up on him. He has a habit that no matter what steps we take, still persists. I’ve found him engaging in this activity late at night, early in the morning, and many hours throughout the day. What is it? Reading. I’m not kidding: he won’t stop. I complained to my husband yesterday, “Do you know how dumb this sounds? ‘Honey, stop reading and get back to your schoolwork.’” My husband agreed that this sounded bad, but what do you do?

In an “About Me” speech that my son composed, he wrote, “I’d rather read fifty books than have to write one word.” His penmanship and fine motor skills are adequate; he is not suffering from a learning disability or anything of the sort. Just a motivation disability. He leaves the room under the guise of needing some quiet to do his language and math work, gets stuck on a problem, then pulls out a book until I wander by and ask, “Why aren’t you finished?”

Because he shoulders more responsibility than his younger sisters (but not unreasonably so), he also receives more privileges than the younger ones. I believe this is one of the keys to not provoking our children or causing them to become bitter against us. Because he handles responsibility maturely, he receives the same in kind: later bedtimes, more trust, and the extra cherry that I’ll slip him under the table occasionally throughout the day. And so, after family worship and a nightly read-aloud, the three girls will be sent to bed while he hangs off the couch upside-down with a bowl of ice cream (sometimes) while my husband reads a G. A. Henty novel aloud. Then they’ll get on the internet and look for a picture of one of the ancient ships the novel spoke about while I moan, “Don’t ya’ll think it’s late?”

Now the girls are crazy about books too. If I dump a new pile of books on the family room floor, based on the screaming and excitement, you’d think you were at a modern day Sponge Bob birthday party. But the girls aren’t obsessed like my son. And so, while I acknowledge there are worse obsessions, I pray along with my son for wisdom in how best to mother them all.