Hooked On (Anything But) Phonics...

[PlanetMom]

Although my seven-year-old wonders worship the ground upon
which worms slither, I never envisioned the possibility they might actually become
worms—bookworms, more specifically.
Granted, my heathens still routinely climb trees, dig in the dirt and festoon
our hapless dog with lipstick; but I’d surmise they’ve spent nearly as much
time with the likes of Roald Dahl, Barbara
Park, Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume this
summer—devouring their works as if each word were laced with licorice and
coated with caramel.

 

Okay—maybe rainbow sprinkles and S’mores are more their speed.
Nevertheless, I am astonished by the recent turn of events as it relates
directly to my children’s obsession with and addiction to reading. Quite frankly,
I am baffled by the power said literary entities apparently have over them. It’s
as if my kids are under some sort of twisted spell from the moment they crack
open a book and disappear into its pages—totally disconnected from the world. All
that remains is a stoic shell with grass-stained knees, a smattering of Band-Aids
and a glassy-eyed gaze that states the obvious: Out to Lunch. Seemingly nothing
else on the planet matters except for the narrative unfolding before them.

 

If only they could be so engaged while pouring milk!

 

Now and again, bursts of chortles and animated nonsense erupt
from behind those well-worn paperbacks—intended for no one, broadcast to
everyone, making me insane with curiosity and envious of those in the know. Once
in a great while someone will tap me for the meaning or pronunciation of a word.
Naturally, I oblige, but aside from that I have virtually no function—except
maybe to keep the damn bookshelves well stocked.

 

For whatever reason (their teachers’ ability to instill a passion
for reading so great it’s inconceivable, the motivating force of the Summer
Reading Programs orchestrated by the James V.
Brown Library and the Crosscutters
Baseball Organization or the bevy of simply scrumptious titles available at
area bookstores, Borders
and Otto’s chief among them), my
charges have been hopelessly smitten with all-that-is-bookish this summer.

 

And that’s a good thing. I think. For a time, anyway, the
din subsides and the circus all but leaves town, affording me the opportunity to
reclaim my sanity. Mom probably relished much the same as I trekked off into
the woods, The Secret Garden or
something Mark Twain-ish firmly tucked under an arm. Although, truly, it drives
me berserk to try and communicate with creatures so consumed by a piece of literature
it’s obscene. Needless to say, in those instances I feel the compelling urge to
shriek, “Snap out of it, you little dweebs! Don’t you know there are cats to
torment and mud pies to bake?!” I could tell them their hair was on fire and
they wouldn’t care. That ponies await them in the yard. That baths would be
banished forevermore and pillow fights would reign supreme if only they would humor
me by mouthing a response to any one of my infinitely insignificant (read:
silly ass) questions.

 

Still, I get nothing. Nothing that even remotely resembles a
suitable reply. Instead, I am shushed, and scolded and ordered back into the
hole from whence I came. “Mom, can’t you see I’m trying to READ?! I can’t
concentrate with all that talking you’re doing.” By all accounts, I have become
an annoyance to my children. I’m the mosquito in their ear. The rain on their
parade. The pebble in their beloved Crocs. The pit in their peach. All the
same, they ignore my incessant yammerings—or retreat to a more secluded location.

 

To date, I’ve found my unlikely scholars poring over books
while perched atop the coffee table, buried beneath their covers, hunched under
the kitchen table, holed up in the bathroom, planted under an oak tree and sprawled
out on the living room floor. They’ve also been known to crawl inside the dog’s
crate (to read to him, of course), to savor chapter upon chapter while being
taxied hither and yon and to whine about being deprived of a gripping novel while
parked in a public restroom.

 

It’s true.

 

Upon hearing, “Sheez, I wish I had a book, Mom,” drift over
the bathroom stall at Rivals
recently, I thanked God no one else was there to witness such a mortifying
disclosure—unless that someone happened to be a librarian. He or she, no doubt,
would have cheered the notion and praised me for instilling within my child the
burning desire to read—even while camped on the loo.

 

So maybe I have
made significant strides in nurturing a love of books, never mind that it
smacks of weirdness and flies in the face of convention. That being said,
perhaps the most rewarding byproduct of the whole affair has been the wealth of
conversations we’ve shared in the wake of impassioned page flipping—conversations
sparked by clever plots, vivid characters and a common fascination with the
telling of tales. Something I’ve longed for as a parent and have finally
realized.

 

Then again, digging in the dirt with the crew is loads of fun,
too—worms or no worms.

 

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

 

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

[forRobyn]

Jul. 22, 2008 at 12:29 PM

My two and a half year old daughter has always loved to read, and I love that!!  Currently we read between 15 and 25 books a day (gotta remember books for toddlers are not very long!)