I always hoped my child would share my love of the written word. Well, the universe has a funny way of smacking you down and keeping you humble; instead, I got a child who could not spell and hated to read. (Ack!)
Mark liked books well enough, as long as I read them. I didn't mind; my favorite time of every day was bedtime, when Mark and I crawled into bed and read together. The books started out small with a short sentence or two on each page, and I read them quickly, so he didn't lose interest. As he grew, so did the books, getting a bit bigger each month, and I slowed my pace, savoring the words.
When Mark learned to read, I encouraged him, making him read the last word of each sentence, and then, gradually, read full sentences. He hated this; he simply wanted to listen to the story, not be an active participant.
"I read all day at school," he'd complain, breaking my heart. And so I continued to read to him.
Even as he got older, he refused to read books. He'd read magazines, manuals with one-page ideas on training cats or making paper planes, comics, anything with words but not a linear story. He loved Calvin and Hobbes, because he could pick it up, read a few pages, and put it down again without keeping track of a plot.
This, too, broke my heart; I wanted him to love books like I loved books. I took him to the library so he could pick out whatever he wanted. I bought him the latest and greatest in kid lit: The Hunger Games, the Warrior books. I bought him my favorites as a kid: The Great Brain series, A Wrinkle in Time. I bought him Harry Potter. I bought him whatever he wanted out of the Scholastic catalog every month at school. Alas, he spent most of his time reading Pokemon cards and Diary of a Wimpy Kid books, which had lots of pictures. He'd read just about anything that wasn't actually a book.
(And when he did have to read books for school...well, that was a disaster!)
Whatever, I figured, as long as he was reading something, it still counted. And so I stopped trying to force my favorites on him, and gave in to what he really liked. I bought magazine subscriptions to Mad, Thrasher, and Boy's Life. It was like feeding a baby pureed vegetables; I'd get those words into him one way or another, even if he spit most of them back out.
And then, a couple months ago, the most amazing thing happened. Mark brought home the first Harry Potter book. And he read it! Without prompting, without pushing, he read the whole book by himself, whenever he had a spare moment. He read it in bed, at night, and before school. He read it in class, and when he came home from school, even on the weekends. He read it when he was supposed to be cleaning his room, and eating his dinner. He read it while I did yard work, and yelled at him to help. He. read. the. whole. book.
As soon as he finished, he immediately asked to return to the library for the second book.
My heart sang with joy! Here he was, my avid reader, another lover of words and great stories. He'd read a book, a whole book, chapter by chapter, on his own, because he wanted to, and he'd enjoyed it!
Woo hoo, I wanted to dance around the house! I felt like so many doors had suddenly opened for him, without him even knowing it. I felt like he'd joined a secret society, a smart, erudite society, with all the answers to the universe bound between two covers. I welcomed him to the society, and returned to the library to reward him.
He still checked out a Simpsons comic book, but hey, that's cool. You can't live on pureed vegetables alone, you gotta have some junk food, too. And right next to that comic book was this, the third Harry Potter book. It doesn't have any pictures, and it's 730 pages long! But Mark didn't even hesitate; he picked the book up and started reading it two days ago. He's already on page 124.
It's like the floodgates have opened, and Mark can't read enough. I recognize that kid, because I was that kid, always wanting to read more, to inhale words like other kids inhaled candy or soda. He's gonna cost me a fortune now, but it's the best money I'll ever spend, and I'll do it willingly. I renewed all his magazines, and his library card.
I also renewed my childhood memories, of mother and child, in the living room, quietly reading together. Only this time it's not me and my mom, but me and my son.
But it's just as great the second time around...
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