On Reading and Letting Go

The picture on the left is of my Grandma Kinney, my Mommy and me. I have very few pictures of my Grandma & me together which is sad, especially because she was one of the most influential people in my life. This picture was taken in her living room, and one thing you can't see in this photo is that one wall of that room was covered with gorgeous floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that my Grandfather built. There are many things that I loved about my grandparents' home-- I dream more often that I am there than any other place in the world-- but the sight of those beautiful bookshelves full of books is one of the images I love the most.

My grandmother was an avid reader. She ALWAYS had a book to read. Always. She even followed the Library's new book lists in the newspaper, and would call the Library to place her name on hold lists (this was many years before we had the ability to do such things via computer!) so that she wouldn't miss out on a new title. She is the reason I like dictionaries so much and feel like I have to look up words to make sure I have the precise definition before I explain them to Kiddo, or even use them on Facebook! So I think she liked that I had inherited the bookworm gene and rarely arrived at her house without a book of my own to read.

Grandma spoke several times to me of the classics she loved as a child, with such reverence and enthusiasm. Many times I heard about how exciting Treasure Island and Kidnapped were, or how charming The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew was. Yet the only of her favorites that I can recall her successfully convincing me to read was Heidi-- and that may have just been because I'd seen the Shirley Temple movie and was curious to see if the filmmakers had butchered adapted that story as badly as A Little Princess. Instead, she probably saw a parade of Baby-Sitters' Club, Sweet Valley, and other mass-produced series books coming in and out of her doors-- not that those were the only books I read, but the sheer number of them would have made it seem that way. So along with the joy in seeing me love to read, there was some disappointment that I didn't take her advice -- or at least some bewilderment-- and that I wouldn't share her love for her favorite tales.

Fast-forward several years. The photo on the right is of course, of Kiddo and me- at his school for a Read Every Day event last year. For the first five or six years of his life, he and I shared countless joyful hours of reading together. I could pick nearly any title and, if I shared it with him, he usually enjoyed it. But for the last year or so.... well, I guess you could say Kiddo and I butt heads a lot, particularly about the issue of reading. This beautiful, brilliant boy who learned to read fluently and independently earlier than anyone I'd ever met started telling me, "I hate reading." "Reading is boring." Even though he still wants me to read at bedtime, he's gradually gotten much pickier about what I read to him. Then we started hearing, "I'll ONLY read Basketball books" and "You can't make me read THAT." There were tears and arguments over completing Fluency reading assignments. And last week, this Mommy had a horrible meltdown before bedtime. After Kiddo fell asleep, I found myself in shock. How could *this* boy have stopped loving to read? And how could *I* have a child whose heart did not fill with joy when given the admonition to "Go read a book?" Am I really going to be able to handle it if any of my children really DO end up hating reading?

The next morning Kiddo woke up exceedingly early and went downstairs to our "Study room," where most of our Chapter books reside. From the shelves, he selected Diary of a Wimpy Kid, which he had begged for nearly a year ago but later refused to finish. He came back upstairs, sat down at the table, opened his book, and started to read to me. He read for half an hour. And then, every day for 5 days, he voluntarily brought the book to me and read to me more. On Monday, he finished it. Several times in the past week, he's told me how much he enjoyed this book, how funny it is, and how he wants to keep reading the series. Today we went to the bookstore, and he asked for not just the 2nd Wimpy Kid book, but also some Puppy Place books. Excited about his renewed enthusiasm, I ignored that the additional titles are well below his reading level, and maybe not "Great Literature," and gladly purchased them for him.

As we returned home, I thought of my Grandmother, and how much she wanted me to read the books that she loved, but how she accepted that I was content to read the books *I* chose, regardless of their perceived "literary merits." I thought of the conversation Kiddo and I had earlier this week about how important it is to find the right books FOR YOU, the books that will capture YOUR interest and inspire you-- even if they're not the books that someone who loves you very much feels *certain* you'll enjoy if only you'll *give it a try.* And I thought, "Okay, Grandma. I get it now. I think I know what you must have been feeling all those years ago."

So even though we didn't emerge from the bookstore with a bag full of Newbery winners, and even though my collections of Beverly Cleary or Kate diCamillo books sit on the shelf unread for now, I am happy. I am satisfied that my Kiddo does still enjoy time spent with a book, that he still wants to read, and that he does not, in fact HATE books. And I am letting go of my expectations of WHAT he should/must/will read, in hopes that he too, will gain the lifelong satisfaction that comes from immersing himself in a book.

And I remember that five years ago, I finally did read Treasure Island-- sadly, too late to discuss it with Grandma, but instead, in loving memory of her, and all that she did for me, all that she taught me. Perhaps someday, Kiddo might do the same.