Children are a conundrum. I said it. When they are babies, they require every ounce of energy a mother can summon...and then some. When they are babies, we mothers find ourselves wishing on occasion that we didn't have to do every bloomin' thing in the world for them. We rejoice when our babies complete tasks independently for the first time. Recently I have found myself becoming ridiculously impressed with my two-year-old's jumping skills. One day she just learned to jump with both feet like a professional kangaroo, and I was dazzled.
Now my two year old can do all sorts of things independently. She can feed herself for example. The little genius peels her own bananas and clementines. She also pushes a small chair around my house and gains access to "up high" things that used to require mom's help to acquire. She dresses herself in completely mismatched clothes and cowboy boots. Most of the time this is all great. Most of the time I applaud her independence and cleverness, but I confess that I sometimes miss that little person who needed me just a little bit more. I miss the agreeable baby who accepted my help and my choices regarding what was best without any arguments. And maybe I spring to my feet and respond to her impassioned shouts of, "I NEED HELP!!" just a little too quickly since those requests seem to come less and less often.
Fast forward a few years.
I have been reading bedtime stories to all of my children since before they were old enough to understand what was even going on. My oldest daughter Emma and I have been climbing into bed with great works of children's literature every night as part of our evening ritual for the last nine years. We've read about big hungry bears, big red dogs, and little houses in big woods. Within the last couple of years dragons and wizards have become part of our reading repertoire and have gripped my daughter's interest quite earnestly. Truth be told, I really like reading about the dragons and wizards too, which is why it pains me so greatly to admit that our nightly reading ritual has been crumbling over the last six months or so.
It seems that I have, over the course of the last nine and a half years, fostered a love of reading in my daughter. This was, of course, the main objective of our ritual story times. I remember saying to her a year or so ago, "One day you won't want me to read to you anymore, and that will be very sad for me." She insisted that that day would never come. Twenty years from now I will surely be driving to her house each evening and crawling in bed between her and her husband so that we can all enjoy the next chapter of the latest Jackie Collins novel read aloud by me (with all of the voices), right? Perhaps not.
Actually, most definitely not. She informed me quite casually one evening this summer, "I don't want a story tonight. I'm just going to read to myself." And now she does this just about every night, sometimes staying up far later than she should to find out how things will turn out for Harry, Ron and Hermione. And although my heart breaks just a little bit when I think about the fact that I am not attending Hogwarts with her through the pages of those fantastic novels, I remind myself that I have helped my daughter discover the joys of reading independently.
There are still some nights when she asks, "Could you read me just a few pages tonight?" And I spring to my feet perhaps just a little too quickly because I never know when the last request will come.
When I was a teacher I had the same laminated poster on the front of my desk each year. The poster showed a photograph of a monarch butterfly and this motto: The object of teaching is to enable the child to get along without the teacher. That declaration inspired me when I was a teacher. It reminded me to think of my students and future-adults, to inspire them to ask their own questions and think for themselves. Being a parent is much the same except only a million times harder. As a teacher, I got a fresh batch of adoring fourth graders every year. As a mom I get to watch that kid who used to be my adoring little buddy, roll her eyes and me and declare, "Ugh! You just don't understand me!!"
Of course I want my children to grow up and learn to be their own wonderful people. That is my sincere desire. The crazy part is that as I watch them grow and become, I feel proud, sad, jubilant and heartbroken all at once. See? A complete and worthwhile conundrum.
Now my two year old can do all sorts of things independently. She can feed herself for example. The little genius peels her own bananas and clementines. She also pushes a small chair around my house and gains access to "up high" things that used to require mom's help to acquire. She dresses herself in completely mismatched clothes and cowboy boots. Most of the time this is all great. Most of the time I applaud her independence and cleverness, but I confess that I sometimes miss that little person who needed me just a little bit more. I miss the agreeable baby who accepted my help and my choices regarding what was best without any arguments. And maybe I spring to my feet and respond to her impassioned shouts of, "I NEED HELP!!" just a little too quickly since those requests seem to come less and less often.
Fast forward a few years.
I have been reading bedtime stories to all of my children since before they were old enough to understand what was even going on. My oldest daughter Emma and I have been climbing into bed with great works of children's literature every night as part of our evening ritual for the last nine years. We've read about big hungry bears, big red dogs, and little houses in big woods. Within the last couple of years dragons and wizards have become part of our reading repertoire and have gripped my daughter's interest quite earnestly. Truth be told, I really like reading about the dragons and wizards too, which is why it pains me so greatly to admit that our nightly reading ritual has been crumbling over the last six months or so.
It seems that I have, over the course of the last nine and a half years, fostered a love of reading in my daughter. This was, of course, the main objective of our ritual story times. I remember saying to her a year or so ago, "One day you won't want me to read to you anymore, and that will be very sad for me." She insisted that that day would never come. Twenty years from now I will surely be driving to her house each evening and crawling in bed between her and her husband so that we can all enjoy the next chapter of the latest Jackie Collins novel read aloud by me (with all of the voices), right? Perhaps not.
Actually, most definitely not. She informed me quite casually one evening this summer, "I don't want a story tonight. I'm just going to read to myself." And now she does this just about every night, sometimes staying up far later than she should to find out how things will turn out for Harry, Ron and Hermione. And although my heart breaks just a little bit when I think about the fact that I am not attending Hogwarts with her through the pages of those fantastic novels, I remind myself that I have helped my daughter discover the joys of reading independently.
There are still some nights when she asks, "Could you read me just a few pages tonight?" And I spring to my feet perhaps just a little too quickly because I never know when the last request will come.
When I was a teacher I had the same laminated poster on the front of my desk each year. The poster showed a photograph of a monarch butterfly and this motto: The object of teaching is to enable the child to get along without the teacher. That declaration inspired me when I was a teacher. It reminded me to think of my students and future-adults, to inspire them to ask their own questions and think for themselves. Being a parent is much the same except only a million times harder. As a teacher, I got a fresh batch of adoring fourth graders every year. As a mom I get to watch that kid who used to be my adoring little buddy, roll her eyes and me and declare, "Ugh! You just don't understand me!!"
Of course I want my children to grow up and learn to be their own wonderful people. That is my sincere desire. The crazy part is that as I watch them grow and become, I feel proud, sad, jubilant and heartbroken all at once. See? A complete and worthwhile conundrum.
No comments:
Post a Comment