The winter breaks of my childhood were always a time to slow down.  With no activities and no school, the days unfurled before me like a royal red carpet, and I was the queen who dictated their pace.   As far back as I can remember, those two magical weeks at the end of the calendar year meant seemingly endless hours of puzzles, popcorn, movies, baking, sledding, snowmen, and yes, curling up with a book and losing myself for days.  Time was elastic, and it stretched.

Since I’ve had children, winter breaks have changed dramatically.  Sure, there is slower time when we play card games, color intricate adult coloring pages, go sledding, watch movies, hike through frozen prairie preserves, and attend Cat Club, but as we are doing these things, my brain is also filled with cooking, cleaning, readying gifts, doing laundry, and how to further occupy rampaging, excited kids.

The one thing that hasn’t changed, however, is reading books.  Both of my children love to read by themselves, but I still insist, somewhat selfishly, that I read aloud to them, too.  It is virtually impossible for me to think about anything else when I’m reading aloud, and being close to my kids calms my body and brain.  It’s kind of good for them, too. 

So, this winter break, I found myself scouring the bookshelves in my study trying to find a book that a nine-year-old boy who loves Percy Jackson and a six-year-old girl who loves The Boxcar Children would enjoy reading with me.  When my eyes settled on A Wrinkle in Time, my heart skipped a beat.

My favorite book from childhood.  My inspiration for writing.  The catalyst for my love of fantasy.  A book I, myself, curled up with over winter break in fifth grade.  Are they ready for it, though? I asked.

Because with books that are precious to me, I have this fear that I will ruin the stories if I introduce them before my kids are ready.  My son was not ready for Harry Potter, and now he won’t give it a second chance.  My daughter was not ready for Miss Hickory, and it’s sitting unfinished on the shelf.  Maybe my kids will return to the books someday, but maybe not.

I looked over the books one last time, but nothing jumped out at me.  Let’s try it, at least, I decided.

I sat down in my spot on our couch, my daughter on my left (as always), my son on my right (no, we cannot switch places ever), both leaning in so that they could see the words.  I opened the book to the first page and began.  It was a dark and stormy night.  In her attic bedroom Margaret Murry, wrapped in an old patchwork quilt, sat on the foot of her bed and watched the trees tossing in the frenzied lashing of the wind.

As I read aloud those first two lines, I was unprepared for the lump in my throat and the goosebumps on my arms.  All my doubts faded.  I could feel the web of story enveloping the three of us sentence by gossamer sentence.  The outside world faded beyond our protected space, and time stretched.

In our current world that can sometimes feel so overwhelmingly dark, chaotic, and out of control, this moment made me feel intense gratitude for winter breaks, time that breathes, encounters that connect us, and the siren call of stories that beckon us to escape reality.  I hope that someday my children look back on their childhoods and feel the same sense of peace and slow time as they remember the books we shared together on the couch over many winter breaks.