In elementary school, each student in my class made a bookmark under the careful direction of our teacher. Were they each a unique artistic expression of the child who made it? No. They were very simple: just two columns going down, with spaces for a date and a signature.
We were to take these home every day, and our parents were to add the date and their signature when we read with them on that particular day. Then we brought the bookmark back to school to show the teacher that we had diligently practiced at home.
After a few weeks of this, my mom wrote “Krystof reads every day” on the bookmark, signed it, and never looked at it again. My teacher was amused by this, but what was she going to do? And so I showed her this bookmark every day, and every day she smiled and accepted it.
“Krystof reads every day”.
It was probably true, or at least close. My parents had a huge library that spanned most of our house growing up. There were books on huge shelves in all of the bedrooms, in my dad’s office, and in the living room. I genuinely thought we had a copy of all the books worth reading in the whole world. If someone at school recommended a specific book, I’d ask my mom, and I’d have it on my bed stand the same day or the next. If I didn’t have a specific book in mind, my mom would say she’d think about it and come back with something fun.