The other evening, my husband and I were minding our own business when our 12-year-old son appeared in front of us with an announcement. “I am,” he said softly, in a non-Stentrian tone. “I'm not a book person.”
His father and I mentally gathered our resources and looked to our reserves, but we never looked to each other. It has always been my job to be at the forefront of family, emotional, and parenting catastrophes, and this seemed to cut across all areas of my authority.
“I see,” I said carefully. “So, when did you start feeling like this?”
“I've always been someone who doesn't read books” – the capital letters seemed to expand – “but I've always loved reading. But now I love computers more, and only computers I want to do it. Goodbye.”
With that, he disappeared into the bedroom. Yeah, now that I think about it, my inner turtle has come out of the shell of denial that I've been building up over the past few years (and that's not a metaphor) and it's really moving, but I'm not upset here. ), littered with more tech gadgets, wires, bits of unidentified electronic kit, and flickering screens than the beloved dog-eared book.
“So,” said the husband, after a moment's silence, that? ”
“Are you talking about the kids or the news?” I said.
“Oh, I’m sending the kid back,” he said. “The warranty period is 18 years, right?” And this is clearly a duff model. ”
This is certainly an unexpected development. Our son comes from a stable of bookworms. His father reads all the classical literature and all non-fiction that I know of (he specializes in maritime history, the Suez crisis, and anything else that fascinates me).
I'm more biased toward fiction, but we're both voracious consumers. Our house is lined with books we've read, books we've reread, and books we haven't read yet. I've written a few as well, one of which is called: bookwormsubtitled “A Memoir of Reading as a Child.”
I was born as a bookworm and since then I have become more and more committed to this role. Buying books and reading books are two separate but related hobbies that will continue to be the greatest pleasures of my life, but as I get older gardening takes center stage. I am boldly taking on the challenge.
But what? do What do you think of this news? Of course, in the grand scheme of things, it barely registers. Of all the notices your child may make to you after adolescence, this is the least of them. Still, I can't pretend it didn't upset me. There's nothing more fun than facing your own biases and having your expectations wobbled and upended.
Because I expected him to be a bibliophile, someone who reads books. Even though he was surrounded by things from the time he was born and was read to him every night, and despite being careful not to force books on him in a family that loved books, he wasn't like that. suggests that we do not have much influence over him. More than I expected.
This suggests that we have much less power to guide and protect him than I fully know.
Also, I'm sorry to point this out to you, but this is an outrageous display of ingratitude. I mean, I created him, right? I gave birth to him (took years and it really hurt), raised him (I really took my time, not halfheartedly), kept him safe, fed and watered him, gave him what he needed. I did. All he can do is reflect the best parts of me and offer me new ways to experience old joys, right?
And then, midway through this train of thought, you realize that a big part of parenting is narcissism, and you come to a screeching, unwelcome halt, shaking like a roadrunner just before the anvil lands. Imagine having the courage to think that they will automatically follow in your footsteps. Despite all the efforts that seem to foster their independence and realize their unique talents and potential, it turns out that what your little lizard brain really longed for was a replicant. thing. You're a terrible person.
Then there's the fact that I think reading is a fundamental good. It's almost a moral virtue. And if he's not interested in it, what does it mean? Had I disappointed him in some way? Has he betrayed me (“we,” said her husband, “yes, absolutely”)? What will we talk about in the future? Will we end up just waving forlornly at each other from the far shores of technology and the English language?
Of course at that point I realized, like every other parent, that I was not only a raging narcissist, but also a selfish and emotionally inadequate human being. My panic and fear aren't really about books or reading (“for me,” says his father, “because he's a pillow”). This separation is his first real self-assertion, this first detachment, and rightfully so, when every mother says, “What else are we here for? This is the beginning of a separation that requires us to embrace this feeling. . (And perhaps fathers. I'm still considering the idea of a guarantee, and will have to cast a wider net than the current sample I have to hand).
How will we begin to reconcile this new development and all the unwanted self-awareness that comes with it? We don't know yet.
However, I will say this. In the weeks since this announcement, we've started telling him about technical issues (as his two freelance journalists who can't see one end of the Wi-Fi and the other). There were many problems). I watch in awe as he works it out. There's no need to search for helpline numbers or hand over a suitcase of cash to a phone repair counter, as we'll complete your repair in seconds and return you a working device. It's like he has his own IT department of his own company. As a family, we are better equipped for life.
As it turns out, there's an argument to be made that the last thing we needed in this world was another book character.
