Monday, July 25, 2011

Surprise

My children are funny - more so than the children of others (obviously). They are quick-witted and clever, with surprisingly extensive vocabularies, but they are prissily particular about what they read. They refuse to read just anything, and you can't make them. With them, there is no slogging through a book just to get it all in, and when they were children, I could base a book's worthiness on whether or not they pulled toys from under their covers during the reading hour. If a book was great, they would ask to have it read aloud at breakfast and lunch as well. And when we read Rikki Tikki Tavi by Rudyard Kipling.....well, that's not a good example since it can be read in one sitting......they sat with rounded eyes and tense frames.  "....with tooth and jump and spring and bite....."  Oh, the surprise of that book. I think it might be just right for a nine-year-old still.

Not only did I read aloud, but we checked out books on tape as well. We listened to Rascal by Sterling North on a trip to Missouri one summer, after I grabbed it on a whim. It was a pleasant surprise, indeed. Who wouldn't love raising his own raccoon?

As a home school mom, I had occasion to find books written for nineteenth century children. Those were sometimes more hysterical than historical, but we discovered unique literature that turned out to be classics in some genres. And my dorky babies even liked a series of moral tales written for Mennonite children. We had to read those at breakfast (to make up for the Bible reading first).

Of course, there were also the obvious choices like: Where the Red Fern Grows, Huckleberry Finn, Peter Pan, The Railway Children, The Boxcar Children, Farmer Boy, The Secret Garden, Heidi, you name it, we checked it out because we was always at the liberry. We found a number of little gems in those stacks; little gems that made it impossible for my children to find interest in The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. And I did try. I'm no snob when it comes to books.....though I raised me some.

The very best books are the ones you don't expect to like. The ones you open out of desperation, but little hope. I miss those days, and I thought I was alone until I read my friend's blog, and she told of the hollow ache left by her growing children's disinterest in their old books. My own hurt comes mostly when mine don't even remember reading a certain book - a book that took up a summer's week, a book that was read after a long night-walk or in a tent or cuddled together on a back-porch swing or in a dark room with flashlights and draped bed sheets.

After all, it's a little insulting when you think of how your own parents never read to you anything, yet you have gone the extra mile to create magic for your youngsters. However, when you think of it thusly, you realize that in a significant way, you were able to make it up to yourself. We all have that one area we would have so liked our parents to fulfill.

And right or wrong, it's sometimes a pleasant surprise when your children fulfill it instead.

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