Col is on the couch reading, staying one chapter ahead of us in Harry Potter, dropping occasional spoiler-bombs on innocent ears. “I just learned that Rita Skeeter has been eavesdropping by ...”

“Coe-uhl, don’t tell us!” Rose roars, her feet kicking out of a handstand, crashing down on her rat’s cage.

Snark pinches the corners of Col’s mouth into a grin. He’s buoyed by his supreme reading power over his sister, who’s still swimming in the shallow end of Frog and Toad.

“Don’t read ahead, Col! It’s not fair,” Rose protests. I hope Rose will someday harness her sensitivities to fight injustice.

“Why do you care?” Col replies.

All I have for them is sighs. Where do they get the energy for all the arguing?

Col returns to The Goblet of Fire, the words lifting off the page creating an impenetrable force field around him. He needs to clear the table, hang up his jacket, but I’d need Harry Potter’s magic to pierce his literature-o-sphere with my voice.

Rose’s body flies past me. Her feet pound the gymnastics mat (formerly known as my camping pad) in a round-off. Her legs kick over backwards. I think of a spider. So many limbs, all moving at once.

“Are you having a piece of your Valentine’s Day chocolate today, Col?” Rose asks, mid-cartwheel.

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll have nine pieces, and I’ll only have four. Not fair.” Rose stands for a brief moment, arms folded across her heaving chest. I don’t mention that she ate most of her candy the day she got it. Harness that power for good, Rose.

Col goes back to Harry Potter, his eyes swimming inside a flood of words.

I should be cooking dinner, or editing stories for the magazine I work for or persuading Col to hang up his jacket, but I lie on the couch, resting my brain, watching Rose flip and kick. She does a back walkover for the first time. It’s creaky and hesitant, with a crux moment where she prods her legs along like a recalcitrant horse.

“You did a back walkover!” I announce, trying to be appropriately excited for her but not praising-excited like the good 21st century mother I’m training to be. Really what I want to say is: “Holy moly, girl! You rock! You practiced and taught yourself to do a back walkover for the pure joy of it!”

Just like I want to say to Col, “You’re reading a 735 page book, dude! Sure, you might ignore a house fire or your own mother’s voice, but I remember when you struggled through reading, when there was worry and tears. Now you can’t pull yourself out of a book’s orbit.”

When kids are motivated, they’ll give it all they’ve got. They’re dedicated to their passions without doubts and fears wrestling them into a submissive posture. They push forward as if knocking on a vacant door they’re determined to get through. Rose was bent on learning how to hula-hoop, then cartwheel, then to snap with both hands, and now, the back walkover. Knock knock knock.

Col once collected and curated a large collection of rocks. He had a short, loud whistling phase (which I shudder to remember). His fingers were magnetized to Legos for years and then three months ago, he announced, “I think I’m done with Legos.” Drawing airplanes followed. Now, reading.

My job is not to panic when their interests can’t be measured on a standardized test, when they’re messy or loud or so quiet all you hear are the boarded up windows of their consciousness advertising “no vacancy,” behind which a small child crouches with his book. This focus and devotion will be their ally as they mature into the complex world of adulthood. My job is to allow space for what wants to emerge next – to scoot the gymnastics mat out of the kitchen when it migrates, to let the kitchen table become plastered with airplane pictures, to celebrate their passions.

Reach Rachel Turiel at sanjuandrive@frontier.net.Visit her blog, 6512 and growing, on raising children, chickens and other messy, rewarding endeavors at 6,512 feet.