Year One: November
"Why are birthdays special?" Tom asked the Nice Lady one day, while they sat in the garden and watched the other children play.
"Well," she replied, "they mark the day that you were brought into this world. Birthdays are a milestone of sorts.
Tom's little face was scrunched up in thought. "But they have no purpose."
The Nice Lady glanced at him and sighed. "I suppose not. Perhaps they're just an excuse to eat cake and have fun."
Tom giggled a bit at that.
They sat in silence for a little while longer. The Nice Lady had one of those rectangular things open on her lap. Tom toddled over and seated himself beside her. "What is that called?" he asked, pointing to the rectangular thing.
The Nice Lady smiled fondly at him. "This," she replied, closing the rectangular thing and letting her finger travel over the edge caressingly, "is called a book."
"Book."
"Yes."
"And the book has sto-sto –"
"Stories," the Nice Lady said, smiling slightly.
Tom nodded. "I want to read," he said finally.
The Nice Lady looked at him in some surprise. "You aren't even a year old, sweetheart. Most children don't begin to read until they're at least three of four."
Tom just looked at her, sticking his lower lip out, and using a word that he'd heard some of the older children use when they wanted something. "Please?"
The Nice Lady rolled her eyes and said, "Alright, I'll begin teaching you tomorrow. But it's not going to be easy, remember that."
Tom was satisfied. He had seen so many people doing the reading thing that he didn't believe that it could be all that difficult. His tiny face broke out into a grin as he leaned against the tree that they were sitting under and thought about all the wonderful things he could experience when he finally learnt how to read.