This is the Summer of Harry Potter. Every night I read a couple chapters aloud to my eight-year-old twins, and we’re on the fifth book.
Both of them ~ but my daughter especially ~ won’t let me get away with missing it. They’ve been watching the clock. “Mom, it’s seven. Let’s go read.” Or “Mom, you didn’t remind us!” Or “Let’s go up early!” This is a biggie because my daughter is usually pretty lackadaisical about time and doing things when we’re supposed to. I mean, she takes hours-long baths.
But it’s really launched them in their reading. They had read before ~ my son especially was getting into it. But now they’re both reading a lot on their own. My son will just randomly be found on his bed reading, and my daughter made me stop at the county library to check out Boxcar Children mysteries, her favorite.
They are loving reading and storytelling. My daughter can spin a tale at the dinner table that, finally, we have to say, “Wrap it up, girl!” My son and I sat around the campfire when we were camping and took turns telling stories we made up on the spot.
They’ll make Harry Potter jokes, and they’ll figure out the plot twists ahead of time, with or without prompting from me. “Who is going to be this year’s Dark Arts teacher?” is a common refrain. When there’s a particularly vicious plot turn, my daughter says, “I’m going to rip Voldemort’s face off and kick him in the shins!” When I read a particularly sad part, my voice cracks ~ or stops all together ~ and my son buries his head in a pillow, tears in his eyes.
I love it. I love that they love what I love, you know?