transitive verb \ˈcher-ish, ˈche-rish\
: to feel or show great love for (someone or something)
: to remember or hold (an idea, belief, etc.) in a deeply felt way
I cherish the day my nine year-old daughter first flashed me her famous grin when I came to pick her up and announced, “I did my homework already, Mom,” with a bounce in her step. It brought a bounce to my step, too, so that both of us bounced to the car with the evening stretched out like summer in front of us.
I cherish, too, the night I left a biography of Barack Obama in the backseat and she hardly spoke except to say, “Thanks!” She read voraciously in the car and didn’t turn on a screen until we’d been home twenty minutes or more.
Slowly, we will bring our reader back, despite the lure of the bright lights, clicks and beeps – slowly, we will rein in the time she spends on her new device, and build up her stamina again for the printed page.
Growing up, of course, I had only TV to lure me with its’ bright light magnetism, so this is a whole new world of technology, with rules she and her mama and I have yet to learn. Or set.
In my twenties, I didn’t even own a TV. I planned to change the world; I was hardly ever home; I was always at meetings or protests or speak-outs or actions. I didn’t have time (or cash) for TV.
I now have a giant TV in my living room where my family spends plenty of time, but lately, we also like to play Clue. In our house, Mr. Green is a Gogo and when homework is done and the dishes are washed and the evening still stretches in front of us, we spend our time guessing, gaming, giggling, eating cake or snacks or not, and occasionally telling stories about our day.
I cherish this. What do you cherish these days?