Tonight, while I was reading to Fletcher, he started to cry. I won’t reveal the details of the passage we were reading, just in case there are any Percy Jackson fans out there who haven’t yet made it through this particular section of The Battle of the Labyrinth. It isn’t the first time this has happened. He and I have cried together over quite a few books, from The Giving Tree to Because of Winn Dixie to The Man Who Walked Between the Towers (okay, that one was mostly me sobbing uncontrollably because I didn’t realize what was coming and Fletcher just tearing up a bit because I was crying. Ugh.)
He is such a tender-hearted boy. He feels everything so deeply, so intensely. And most of the time that is wonderful – most of the time that means over the top joy over the littlest things. But sometimes it means leaving him in his bed as he struggles not to cry over a fictional character . . .
He gets this from me, this propensity to teariness. And for the life of me I don’t know whether to be proud of the fact, or to apologize to him for it . . . or maybe I should do both.