Wednesday, March 30, 2005

my desire to lock them in a closet

I had this romantic idealized fantasy of introducing "literature" early to my kids. I used to love storytime when I was a kid. I discovered Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, the Chronicles of Narnia, Harriet the Spy, How to Eat Fried Worms , Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing and Jacob Two Two Meets the Hooded Fang by a very dedicated teacher who would read to us everyday. As soon as the Clear Blue Easy revealed the + sign in pink and urine, I started planning on which novels I was going to read to my kids and they were going to sit cross legged at my feet and listen with rapt fascination.

You may have aleady guessed that it hasn't quite worked out that way.

So I decided to quit waiting and take matters into my own hands. Since this is my fantasy, I decided that there was no better time than the present than to refine my oral narration skills and each evening I read a chapter from "the Magicians Nephew". Owen and Harry could not be more disinterested. Harry does these quasi- headstands on the couch while his feet peddle furiously. Owen bounces on the other cushion despite incessant reminders that jumping is forbitten. Meanwhile, Aidan graced the room with his megawail - an overture composed of languid waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa and waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. He begins with gusto, yet once he realizes that he decrescendos, he musters his gumption and commences another refrain. I managed to read chapter six last night, while precariously concealing my desire to lock them in a closet and demand that they pray to Jesus.

This was my fantasy afterall. When constructing these fantasies I conveniently omit the bits of reality. Life is like that sometimes


Famility said...

My unsolicited suggestion: Give up. I spent years dragging one of my two step sons to the library, hoping he would grow to love books. I tried everything from Rahl Dahl to Calvin and Hobbes anthologies. But he grew into a booking hating adult.

Thankfully my 8 year old daughter (so far) shares my love of reading. And she loves writing. Why? Beats me.

Kim said...

Glad I'm not the only one this happens to! Maybe next time, I'll threaten time in the closet instead of an early bed time! ;-)