I began reading when I was three. Or maybe four. I really can't say for certain. I know I was living in Salina, Kan., which meant I had to be at least three, and I think it was late winter or early spring, which would have been right before my birthday in late April. I know I was reading for more than a year before I started school, which again points to the time right around my fourth birthday.

All I remember is that I was sitting on the dining room floor staring at my favorite dinosaur book (which I had memorized some time before) when I realized that the little black squiggles on the page made sense. I read an entire paragraph a couple of times, just to make sure I was actually putting the words in my head (and out my mouth) to the letters on the page. Then I went into the living room, picked up Go Dog Go (a book I asked my dad to read to me so many times that even today he makes a face when I mention the name P.D. Eastman) and read the whole thing cover to cover.

As I learned to read (and love reading) on the laps of my own parents, I believe that reading to children is one of the most important duties a parent has. Children who are read to by their parents most often learn to read sooner, enjoy learning more and thus generally do better in school. It seems to me that a couple hours a day spent reading to a child is a small price to pay for a brighter future.

And so I've been frustrated by my son Max. For the first year of his life, he would occasionally tolerate my wife Barbara or me reading to him. Tolerate is the operative word, as he rarely seemed to enjoy it. He would sometimes have a favorite book of the moment, one he'd somewhat memorized, that would sometimes bring a giggle if read. Sometimes. And there have been occasions when he's enjoyed me reading poems to him while he was playing, my discourse of verse acting as a sort of background music.

But he hasn't really been enthusiastic about reading. I know plenty of kids his age (and many younger) whose eyes light up when their mom or dad holds up a book. Children who sit in rapt attention as the pictures and stories unfold before their eyes. Most often, Max could care less.

Now that he's walking in earnest, Max doesn't play with his toys nearly as much. Happiness for him is walking up and down the sidewalk for an hour or three at a stretch, waving a stick and chirping contentedly to himself. For a kid who has resembled the Buddha (and a pretty fat one at that) for most of his short life, this focus on activity is most heartening.

And then last week he brought a book to me. Max often does this. He'll bring an object of one kind or another (pot, stick, sycamore ball, soiled diaper from his trash can) to me and offer it as some sort of sacrifice, abandoning his booty as soon as it leaves his hand. He's often cleared out his entire toy basket in this manner.

When he brought me Where the Wild Things Are, I took it from him and thanked him. He didn't immediately turn tail and head off in search of another object. Nor did he demand the book back (which he often does). He turned his head a little and then pointed at the book. He tried to open the cover. Silly Daddy finally figured it out. He wanted me to read it to him.

So I did. He seemed to appreciate that the hero of the story shared his name, and he squealed with laughter as we bounced along during the wild rumpus. He sat through the entire book and then demanded that I read it again. And a third time.

Before we finished the third reading, he struggled up out of my lap and brought another book to me. Halloween Countdown, which is a short poem by Jack Prelutsky expanded into a full board book (a gift of my parents, and one of Max's favorites). We read that one once through and then a little more before he hopped up and found another book, which we did not quite finish before he bounced back to bring me another. And another.

We started at least 10 books, and his attention span for each declined precipitously as the book count grew. Nonetheless, Max wanted me (and later that day, his mommy) to read to him. And almost a week later, he's still at it. Somehow, I don't think this is just a phase. He's discovered the joy of reading.

Finally.

Jon Worley used to pride himself on how many books he could read in a day. Now he's happy when he can put together a spare half hour so that he can plunk down and score a few choice pages.