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“Mom, this is so funny. You have to hear it,” my daughter said from the back seat of the minivan.
I agreed, but tersely. Unending construction delays slowed our trip and drew every bit of my attention to the road. But she didn’t much care. “Dream on, you addle-brained idiot bird,” she quoted from her book, then burst into giggles.
“That is funny,” I cautiously allowed.
“Mom, the book is about birds. It’s owlets talking.”
“So I gathered.” She went back to reading and my mind wandered off. Birds, I thought. Talking birds. I searched back but could recollect nothing about avian-based novels for the tween set. What kind of book was this wherein saucy owls hooted insults at their friends? Had I read then forgotten it at some point in the distant past? Did I approve of her reading such a story? Should I demand that she turn over all books now to be vetted before she cracks them open?
At that moment I understood what my parents had been thinking when at thirteen they caught me in mid-summer with the windows bolted tight reading a book about vampires — no not those vampires. The ones I was reading about way back in ‘84 were hardcore. They don’t make vampires like that these days.
Sensing my intemperate panic they immediately forbade me from reading anything else by Stephen King. Of course they failed. I devised sneakier ways of hiding the books until I was out from under their control, at which time I took as much pleasure in leaving his novels lying about my house as they no doubt do when my eye lights upon tomes such as these at theirs.
Ill-advised as their attempts were, I get the motivation. The unknown is terrifying, especially when it sidles up to one’s children. In three short years will my child be ready for dust bunnies, homicidal topiary, and the fact that she’ll never again be able to see a can opener without a shudder of horror?
I don’t know. But I’m not going to stop her from figuring it out on her own.
My parents inspired the same love of Stephen King through their benevolent disregard for whatever I dragged home, be it animals, books, insects or scruffy friends. Maybe most normal parents would think a fourth-grader shouldn’t be allowed to read The Gunslinger, though… Or Carrie. Haha But, discounting my collection of Stephen King tattoos, I don’t think I turned out half bad because of it…-twitchtwitch- Hehehe
As a parent it does not matter what my child is reading, as long as she is reading!
Hello AAG
I think that in many cases parents try to improve what they didn’t like when they were growing up.
Example: My parents both came from large families, and lived in quite small houses. My mother’s four brothers slept in one bed!
So my parents decided to have only7 two children, and they bought a three-bedroom house with a large garden in a nice suburban community.
Yrs in pervery, Adrian
By age 12 I had read all the books on “paranormal” in the children’s sections of 3 local libraries. At that point I started on Stephen King, Anne Rice etc.. I don’t recall my parents ever telling me not to read, or even paying much attention to what I did read.
They just loved that I read so much. And now I have my own house, my bookcase is full, and my son is in desperate need of some more shelves. It’s my dream to have a library, or at least a room lined with bookshelves filled with books of every kind that will never be out of bounds to anyone.
I remember reading “Tiger Eyes” by Judy Bloom in elementary school. Looking back, I was too young to read it, but thankfully I was also too young to get most of the sexual undertone of the book.
Never fear books. She’s on a good path to developing her imagination and expand her mind. So what if she finds clowns the scariest things in the world at one point! ;)