One of the most important and self molding experiences I had as a child was my mom reading aloud to my brother and I at bedtime. It was cemented into our nightly routine and something I certainly remember looking forward to. He is three years older than me so the stories were usually novels, not picture books, The entire C.S. Lewis Chronicles of Narnia series was the most memorable for me, but I know that Gulliver's Travels, Charlotte's Web, and many other adventure stories were also in the rotation, because my brother was the one who got to choose the majority of the time. I do remember though, very specifically, in the time before I drifted off to sleep the stories that I was hearing and the mental picture my imagination was creating must have been very different from the one my brother and my mom had. Rereading the same stories now provides me the small window into my child psyche. I think I can attribute my desire for literature and the passion I have for stories and reading to be originated from this nightly ritual.
I don't remember hating or loving the happy endings or being particularly drawn to any certain type or genre of story. I was enthralled by my mom's voice and her enthusiastic reading and character voices. It was a sort of comfort that I cherished and even to this day when I hear my mom read anything aloud there is a nostalgia that I cannot evade. I certainly was instilled with the desire to read from my mom, and we still share a good book when we happen to come across one. My childhood habit and passion is now continued and like the stories that change over time my relationship of reading with my mom has grown and changed over time.
No comments:
Post a Comment