My son is four years old. Four years old. Four.. years... old... That's a mere 1,461 days as opposed to my 8,766. (Put your calculators down, I'm 24.)
Sometimes I have to literally stop myself from expecting my son to know why the world is round and repeat his age in my mind.
When Louie burst forth from my swollen loins in 2007, it took about two days before I was asked which school he would be attending. Obviously I was far too high on painkillers to give them an answer more articulate than a sleep-deprived grumble, but the reality was that in just four years time he would be shoveled onto the education conveyor belt wearing a back pack larger than his tiny body.
When the time came to start thinking uniforms and sensible shoes, Louie was certainly ready to take the next step toward a life of academia, he needed that extra stimulation and interaction that could never be attained within our carefully constructed fortress. As he settled into the long hours of his school day, surrounded by other young children from all backgrounds, it became apparent that the paramount subject, above all others, was reading.
He takes home a book bag each day, along with a note pad in which I am required to write, informing the teacher of how his reading skills are developing.
I have always read to my son, being a single parent for a long time it was my way of remembering how to speak the English language (even if it made me inclined to use stupid accents when conversing with the 'outside world'). I read to him because reading was fun, for both of us. Some of the stories were moralistic, others were poetic, imaginative and amusing. Although I knew that he would one day be reading on his own, it never occurred to me that there was some invisible deadline in which to do so. What it boiled down to, for both of us, was that it was fun.
Despite this obvious need for children to be read to regularly, and to monitor the speed of their progression, I have decided not to be swept up in the competitive sing song at the school gates. 'Well my daughter is level three reading, don't you know?!'
I can't recall my mother sitting me down with a book and dissecting each word into a nonsensical series of sounds, yet I have always possessed a love for reading and language that stems from a childhood spent hearing the whole story, being transported into a world of imagination whilst recognising how endearing the written word can be if strung together the right way.
I will only read to my son for pleasure, not for him to gain intellectual merit in the world of the child prodigy, and I certainly do not want to take the point out of reading. I would much prefer to have a child that sees books as an enjoyable retreat into the imagination, rather than a child who can read Shakespeare yet lack the insight into the depths of his stories.
Sometimes I have to literally stop myself from expecting my son to know why the world is round and repeat his age in my mind.
When Louie burst forth from my swollen loins in 2007, it took about two days before I was asked which school he would be attending. Obviously I was far too high on painkillers to give them an answer more articulate than a sleep-deprived grumble, but the reality was that in just four years time he would be shoveled onto the education conveyor belt wearing a back pack larger than his tiny body.
When the time came to start thinking uniforms and sensible shoes, Louie was certainly ready to take the next step toward a life of academia, he needed that extra stimulation and interaction that could never be attained within our carefully constructed fortress. As he settled into the long hours of his school day, surrounded by other young children from all backgrounds, it became apparent that the paramount subject, above all others, was reading.
He takes home a book bag each day, along with a note pad in which I am required to write, informing the teacher of how his reading skills are developing.
I have always read to my son, being a single parent for a long time it was my way of remembering how to speak the English language (even if it made me inclined to use stupid accents when conversing with the 'outside world'). I read to him because reading was fun, for both of us. Some of the stories were moralistic, others were poetic, imaginative and amusing. Although I knew that he would one day be reading on his own, it never occurred to me that there was some invisible deadline in which to do so. What it boiled down to, for both of us, was that it was fun.
Despite this obvious need for children to be read to regularly, and to monitor the speed of their progression, I have decided not to be swept up in the competitive sing song at the school gates. 'Well my daughter is level three reading, don't you know?!'
I can't recall my mother sitting me down with a book and dissecting each word into a nonsensical series of sounds, yet I have always possessed a love for reading and language that stems from a childhood spent hearing the whole story, being transported into a world of imagination whilst recognising how endearing the written word can be if strung together the right way.
I will only read to my son for pleasure, not for him to gain intellectual merit in the world of the child prodigy, and I certainly do not want to take the point out of reading. I would much prefer to have a child that sees books as an enjoyable retreat into the imagination, rather than a child who can read Shakespeare yet lack the insight into the depths of his stories.
No comments:
Post a Comment