Raising a Reader

Let the record show that on May 8, 2007, Sam and I began reading Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Though he was born too late for this fantasy series to be the story of his generation, I can’t imagine another phenomenon like this one sweeping the world of Kiddie Lit in his lifetime. In 10 years, the 6 Harry Potter books have been translated into dozens of languages and have sold 375 million copies, making J.K. Rowling a billionaire. She’s closing out the series this July with a book that has so many pre-orders the first print run will be an unprecedented 25 million copies. Is she that good? Well, we’re hooked.

I began sharing books with Sam when he was but a foetus, and we started frequenting the library programs when he was 6 months old. While I’ve enjoyed the tiny board books and then Dr Seuss and then classic children’s fairy tales, I’ve been looking forward to working through longer plots with Sam. Harry Potter will be his fourth chapter book, after James and the Giant Peach, Charlotte’s Web (twice) and The Secret World of Og. These are all wonderful stories to fire the imagination of a young boy who’s not keen to give up completely on picture books (in fact, when I told him I’d be picking up Harry Potter this week, he asked “Who illustrated it?”).

Tellingly, though he was rapt with attention and full of questions through the first two chapters of this child wizard’s adventures, he later searched his shelves to find My First Big Book of Colours and asked me to read that as his “one more story” before bed. When I reminded him that there was no story, that it was just pages of pictures, Sam corrected me with direct quotations that are surely drawn from the deepest recesses of his memory. “Ask me ‘where’s the horsey hiding?’ Ask me ‘what do bees say?’ Ask me ‘is this your favourite fruit?’” So I did. I worked through the colours book just as I used to back when Sam listened with a soother in his mouth. He smiled the whole time.

And I think I understand now why he wouldn’t let me give his baby books to Anabel a few months ago. I’ll never forget his distraught look of panic at the sight of the stack by the front door and then his staunch determination as he hauled those long unread volumes back upstairs declaring, “I’m NOT finished with them!” I thought he was angry at me for failing to consult him before rifling through his belongings for give-aways. I didn’t realize then that his memories of reading with Mommy are attached to the books themselves, or that these simple and oh-so-familiar books might provide a comforting balance to the new and intricate tales we’re exploring now. I’m happy to mix Harry and horseys for Sam. Happy that he loves his books.