Many of my earliest memories are of walks with my mother.  When I was three, and my sister Carol was five, Mother and I would walk Carol to kindergarten at a nearby church. On the way home, and on the way back each day, I had my Mother to myself.

[caption id="attachment_603" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Christmas 1955 at the Shaw home. I&#39;m the lucky one, sitting partly on my Mother&#39;s lap and partly on Daddy&#39;s lap."]<a href="http://motherhoodstress.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/Christmas55_2.jpg"><img class="size-medium wp-image-603" title="Christmas55_2" src="http://motherhoodstress.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/Christmas55_2-300x283.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="283" /></a>[/caption]

In December that year, my sister Beth was born.  She joined us on our walks to and from Carol's kindergarten.  But, as a baby, she took so little of Mother's time and attention that it seemed like I still had my Mama to myself.

Mother also walked us to the library for storytime.  And on the way home, we stopped at a bakery and bought gingerbread men for a treat. Even today, many years later, in my mind's eye, I can see the town square in Griffin, Georgia, with the library on one side and the bakery on another.

If I close my eyes, I can almost smell the gingerbread baking.

And Mother read to us, cuddling us in her lap while we escaped the confines of our small town and traveled in our imaginations around the world.

[caption id="attachment_605" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="My Father, reading to my niece Brannon and my daughter Lisette, Christmas 1985."]<a href="http://motherhoodstress.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/DaddyReading.jpg"><img class="size-medium wp-image-605" title="DaddyReading" src="http://motherhoodstress.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/DaddyReading-300x239.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="239" /></a>[/caption]

What a gift a mother gives her children, and herself, when she reads to her family!

Recently, on my birthday, my son Benjamin quoted a poem to me.

The Reading Mother by Strickland Gillilan

I had a mother who read to me

Sagas of pirates who scoured the sea,

Cutlasses clenched in their yellow teeth,

"Blackbirds" stowed in the hold beneath.
<p style="text-align: right;">I had a Mother who read me lays</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Of ancient and gallant and golden days;</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Stories of Marmion and Ivanhoe,</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Which every boy has a right to know.</p>
I had a Mother who read me tales

Of Gelert the hound of the hills of Wales,

True to his trust till his tragic death,

Faithfulness blent with his final breath.
<p style="text-align: right;">I had a Mother who read me the things</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">That wholesome life to the boy heart brings--</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Stories that stir with an upward touch,</p>
<p style="text-align: right;">Oh, that each mother of boys were such!</p>
You may have tangible wealth untold;

Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.

Richer than I you can never be--

I had a Mother who read to me.