Guest post by Pam Lobley, author of ‘Why Can’t We Just Play?’
On the surface, I might seem like the worst person to talk about reading to children. My sons, who are now ages 23 and 20, don’t read at all unless they have to: if it is required for a college course or a job. They are able to read; they are intelligent, successful people. They just don’t find reading fun.
This is so hard for me, because reading is one of my greatest pleasures. Sometimes the apple does fall far from the tree. In this case, it fell in another country.
When they were little boys, I read to them avidly on a daily basis. I spent hours at the library combing through books to find stories they would relate to, topics that aligned with their interests, and authors they would relish. My husband, an actor, would put on elaborate voices for the characters. The kids loved our read alouds.
When it came time for them to read their own books, however, they stalled. They read the exact minimum they needed to for school and not one sentence more. They were not allowed to watch TV or play video games after dinner most school nights, so it was not that books were competing with screens. It was simply that they did not enjoy reading. They played with Legos or made up games with their stuffed animals instead.
Undeterred, I started to read aloud longer books. Once they got a taste of deep, wonderful storytelling, I figured, they would be hooked. We read Harry Potter, Peter and the Starcatcher, and old favorites like My Side of the Mountain. At the urging of his sixth grade teacher, Jack and I tried Little House in the Big Woods (the first in the Little House on the Prairie series). I wasn’t sure an 11-year old boy would like it, but he did, and we went on to read every single one in the series. I had never read them as a child, so the stories were as new and delightful to me as they were to him.
Alas, my read aloud theory didn’t work. The boys grew into men who don’t enjoy books.
Isn’t that just like parenthood? We work so hard to give our kids all the advantages and to share our joys and interests with them, but we never know what is really going to “take.” They are free to choose their own joys and interests and will not fail to do so.
However, reading is not just a means to an end; I was not only reading so that they would read in the future. I was reading because I wanted to share books in that moment. And boy, did we! During their middle school years we read tons of books including classics like Black Beauty (try it!) and little-known gems like Nothing to Fear (stirring portrait of growing up in the Depression in New York City). The last book I read aloud to my son, just before he started ninth grade, was Gentle Ben. It was a revelation for both of us. A classic that almost no one reads anymore, it has violence, sadness, longing and beautiful descriptions of the pristine Alaskan wilderness. And of course, it has a truly wondrous animal adventure at the center of it.
I consider our read alouds one of my most cherished parental accomplishments. Once upon a time we were swept away during nights of laughter and adventure and wonder; we listened to tales we would never have otherwise heard. We lingered in quiet, one-on-one time while the rest of the world was kept at bay. We held our breath, wondering what would happen on the next page. Reading is magic, and we happily surrendered to its spell.
During those years I filled my children’s heads with stories and their hearts with memories. And we have lived happily ever after.