When I was a kid, my mom made me and my brothers keep lists of the books we read. It was nice to know how we spent our hours and, when people asked for suggestions for good reading material, to have a list at hand. Also, she used the book lists to bulk up her homeschooling records.

To this day, I still keep a list of all the books I have read, and I make my children do the same. However, up until a year ago, only my older son was reading. Despite being well-beyond the normal age at which children learn to read, my twelve-year-old daughter was not.

I was, quite naturally, extremely worried (and had been for years—you can read the whole story here), but then, rather suddenly, she began reading. Now, one year later, the tables have turned so wildly that, when I have contemplated sharing her book list, I feel shy. Maybe people will think I’m bragging?

When I mentioned my hesitation to my friend, she said, “Oh, no, you need to share that list. Remember how you felt a year ago? What would you have wanted to hear back then?”

And so, for the pulling-her-hair-out worried Me of winter 2014, I share this book list. This, dear mama, is what your daughter-who-can-not-read has read … IN THE LAST TEN MONTHS.

The Coming of Dragons: the Darkest Age, by A.J. Lake*
Peter and the Starcatchers, by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson
Peter and the Shadow Thieves, by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson
Peter and the Secret of Rundoon, by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson
The Lightning Thief, by Rick Riordan
Peter and the Sword of Mercy, by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson
The Sea of Monsters, by Rick Riordan
The Titan’s Curse, by Rick Riordan
The Battle of the Labyrinth, by Rick Riordan
Divergent, by Veronica Roth
The Last Olympian, by Rick Riordan
Insurgent, by Veronica Roth
Unwind, by Neal Shusterman
Unwholly, by Neal Shusterman
Unsouled, by Neal Shusterman
The Island Stallion, by Walter Farley
Allegiant, by Veronica Roth
The Book of the Sword, by A.J. Lake
The Black Stallion, by Walter Farley
Touching Spirit Bear, by Ben Mikaelsen
Julie of the Wolves, by Jean Craighead George
The Enormous Egg, by Oliver Butterworth
Clockwork Angel, by Cassandra Clare
The Circle of Stone, by A.J. Lake
Graceling, by Kristin Cashore
Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians, by Brandon Sanderson
City of Bones, by Cassandra Clare
Tiger Eyes, by Judy Blume
Are You There, God? It’s me, Margaret, by Judy Blume
Twilight, by Stephenie Meyer
City of Glass, by Cassandra Clare
Clockwork Prince, by Cassandra Clare
Clockwork Princess, by Cassandra Clare
The Lost Hero, by Rick Riordan
Stargirl, by Jerry Spinelli
The Son of Neptune, by Rick Riordan
Here’s To You, Rachel Robinson, by Judy Blume
The Mark of the Athena, by Rick Riordan
New Moon, by Stephenie Meyer
The Thief Lord, by Cornelia Funke
Mind’s Eye, by Douglas E. Richards
City of Fallen Angels, by Cassandra Clare
City of Lost Souls, by Cassandra Clare
The Maze Runner, by James Dashner
City of Heavenly Fire, by Cassandra Clare
Of Mice and Men, by John Steinbeck
The Fault in our Stars, by John Green
The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins
The Bane Chronicles, by Cassandra Clare
The Chocolate War, by Robert Cormier
I am Number Four, by Pittacus Lore
The Power of Six, by Pittacus Lore
The Rise of Nine, by Pittacus Lore
Fire, by Kristin Cashore
The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, by Sherman Alexie

*In the case of a series, I only linked to the first book in the series.

If there is anything I have learned from this list, it’s this:

Learning readiness is a real thing.
Ignore arbitrary learning time schedules and trust the child.
Imposed learning doesn’t hold a candle to the passion that comes from within: watch out.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (2.17.14), chicken pot pie, creamed chicken with cheese biscuits, and tortilla pie.

This same time, years previous: chocolate pudding, Shakespeare in church, sweet, ginger lemon tea, just stuff, food I’ve never told you about, food I’ve never told you about, part two, odd ends, and cleaning up bad attitudes.    

Nine years ago, I had four children under the age of six. For the next few years, I was in survival mode. Nearly every day around 3 pm I’d call my husband and ask, through clenched teeth, what time he was going to be home.

“Please,” he’d say, “I get home at five. You already know that. You don’t need to call me.”

“But sometimes you get home at 4:30,” I’d explain for the hundred millionth time. “Just knowing you’ll be home a half hour—even just fifteen minutes—earlier gives me energy.”

And so I called him, day after day after day. For years. Sometimes I called him in tears. “You need to come home now,” I’d screech. “I can’t do this anymore.”

And he’d come, bless his heart.

I rarely call him at work anymore. Even when a kid tantrums for hours on end (like yesterday morning), it’s not the same. Sure, my nerves are jangled and I’m punchy-pissed, but I’m not climbing the walls. I can do this. The tantrum will work its way out, and the child will eventually get involved in something non-screamy. There will be moments of wit-gathering calm. No longer is my husband’s five o’clock arrival my only reprieve.

They say that parenting is always hard, and it’s just the kind of hard that changes from age to age. When my children were young, people told me that “these are the golden years.” I’d remember them fondly, they said. Fast-forward to the future and I’d be hankering after my life with babies.

But you know what? I don’t. At least, not really. Sure, raising older kids can be rough, but the struggles don’t hold a candle to the boredom and angst I felt when I had a houseful of babies. The exhaustion and frustration. The loudness and intensity. The constant messes. The never-ending battle to find some alone time, some peace and quiet. (And don’t dare think for one minute that battle is a cute metaphor. No way. That battle had all the desperation and despair of a life-or-death situation. My soul was dying.) 

When I see sleepy mamas wrangle irate toddlers into carseats, or hear about the child who won’t go to sleep without a nip at the boob-grog, or watch parents juggle toys, sippy cups, and diaper bags, all I can think is: we don’t have carseats! My boobs no longer make milk! And, diapers? what are diapers?

Okay, okay. So there were sweet times, too. I look back at pictures like this and get hit upside the sappy heart with a wave of longing. They were so innocent and sweet! Such bright eyes and soft skin! My babies.

But! Now my “babies” wipe their own butts and wash their own hair. They hang up laundry, scrub floors, clean the bathrooms, and empty the trash. They make phone calls and earn money and go on trips and put books on hold at the library. They disappear to their rooms to read for hours on end. They sleep in. They tell funny jokes and make cutting observations. They rub my feet. It’s so much better now.

But just because I think it’s better now doesn’t mean all mothers feel the same way. Maybe, for some mothers, parenting older children really is a whole heck of a lot harder. Maybe my desire to spread hope by saying “it gets better” is just as misguided as those dreaded “these are the golden years” comments.

Or is everyone like me, thinking that each new stage is, over all, better than the last?

This same time, years previous: colds, busted knees, and snowstorms, the quotidian (2.13.12), the outrageous incident of the Sunday boots, a meaty lesson, physics lesson, and slow thinking.