Oh, the Places You'll Go!

This past week, our school, along with schools across the nation, participated in Read Across America.

I read so many Dr. Seuss books to our students, I daily checked my pockets for wockets, answered all questions with, "I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them Sam I am!" (regardless of whether the inquiry was food related) and spoke in silly rhymes all the time.

To the older students, I read Oh, the Places You'll Go!

I am someone who would rather nestle into a favorite spot on the patio, bare feet begging to be even lightly smooched by the peeking sun, a glass of ice cold lemonade sweating into a cold pool on the warm concrete beside me, a book petitioning me to breathe in its words and bask in the comfort of its covers than almost anything else.

It's no surprise then that this week ties Spring Break as one of my favorites to be a teacher.

As I read the pages of Oh, the Places You'll Go, imploring boys and girls to tuck the words of inspiration and encouragement deep down in their hearts, my mind wandered to thoughts of another little boy.

My little boy.

Later that night, after Baker was fast asleep, I tiptoed into his room.

The words I whispered were muffled by the rhythmic hum of the humidifier and sound machine.

I read, page by page, by the muted glow of the nightlight plugged into the wall upon which I propped.

I breathed the words of one of Dr. Seuss's most famous books over Baker.

Words of affirmation, of hope, of encouragement, of strength, and of perseverance danced over his sleeping body.

By the time I finished, I was ready to wake him up. Right then and there. No matter is was 2 hours and 18 minutes past his bedtime. He was armed. Ready.
Albeit, snoozing.

These words were no longer rhymes written in black and white and nailed to the pages of a book. They were prayers, petitions, my heart's cry for Baker.

I believe in him.
No diagnosis. No disability. No delays. No nothing will stand in his way.

I reversed out of his room, backtracking the steps I had taken a few minutes before.

I paused at the door, and uttered to my still soundly sleeping toddler,

"With your head full of brains, and your feet full of shoes, you can steer yourself any direction you choose...Kid, you will move mountains."

 

And he will.