Reading to your kids does pay off, though it is hard to believe it sometimes when they’re little and you are reading the same book for the 90th time.

I had a breakthrough mothering moment — the sort of thing that moms like me dream about — when my seven year old twin boys had a friend their age over for a sleep over.

After a huge day of activities, the three boys were offered a choice between me reading or reading to themselves.

“Read to ourselves,” they replied.

Oh yeah? Isn’t that code for “Mom, go away so we can talk, play Star Wars, jump on top of each other, fart in each other’s face?”

Five minutes later, there they were.

Three little boys in a row. Each reading a book.

One was reading Harry Potter.

The second was reading Lightstar, a long chapter book he’d bought at a book fair years ago when he could barely read the words “cat” or “dog.”

The third was reading Captain Underpants.

“Lights out in another five minutes,” I said.

When I returned, they begged to continue reading.

How could I say no? It was everything and more I’d ever wanted to give my boys: the solitude and joy of reading a book, the fantastic feeling of solace in a page and the ability to travel anywhere without getting on a plane.

(If this blog had sound, you’d hear me getting all sniffly, mushy and weepy. )

P.S. The quiet lasted a mere 10 minutes before chaos ruled again.