EVERYTHING
FOR YOUR FAMILY
Early Years (2-6)
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Standing behind your child’s dreams It was Saturday, market day. Our arms were filled with the bounty of the farmer’s market. And not only the orange beets, fava beans, fresh greens and still-warm bread, but the kind of physical lesson you don’t get at the supermarket: samples of cherries and peaches, human interaction with farmers, live music from Peruvian pan pipers. Some fun! My son gnawed happily on a roasted ear of corn. My niece savored her shaved ice snow cone. Hoping to extend the success of the morning’s journey to the afternoon, I suggested to my niece and my son that we visit the local independently owned and operated children’s bookstore, A Whale of a Tale, just a short walk away. My son agreed, for he knew well their array of books, their patient, inventive staff, and yes, their train table. Our plans were foiled by a line of pre-adolescent girls that went out the door and wound around the courtyard. Today was an author signing, one in a series of special events that the store sponsors throughout the year. Cornelia Funke, writer of such popular fantasy books as “The Thief Lord,” “Inkheart” and “Dragon Rider,” was to appear to sign books and chat with her fans – easily over 100 of them – who, from the looks of this excited, impatient crowd, had been waiting the better part of the morning. My two young charges were easily distracted and so joined other children at play on the grass and in the shade of the trees. I sat down on a low wall and wondered at the cheerful spectacle of so many young readers. It gave me hope. I noticed one young girl in particular. Like the others, she was elegantly dressed in the kind of frock that seldom goes out of style for young girls: reassuringly full skirts, sleeves, a timeless and dignified representation of classic girlhood. Like the others, this girl held more than one book, but unlike the others, also grasped a sheaf of white paper. I recognized it immediately: a manuscript. This one wasn’t just a reader; she was a writer or wanted to be. As the line began to edge along, she drew up nearer to me. “Hello,” I said, a little awkwardly. “Looks like you have something for the author there.” She looked shy, but proud. “Yes,” she said. “It’s a story, isn’t it?” She nodded. “I know,” I said, “because I write too and when I was your age, I started to write my first stories. It’s great that you’re here, meeting this writer and sharing your work with her.” We talked awhile longer for she had questions too. What do you do as a writer? What do you study? What kind of jobs do you have? How do you get your work published? She moved on, closer to her goal, and I was left to think about her. As she walked out of the store a few minutes later, I saw that she had succeeded in giving her story to Funke. I also saw her father emerge from the crowd and embrace her. She was clearly excited and pleased, as was he. Sure, I saw myself in her. That was easy. But I further imagined myself behaving like her parent, the dad who’d obviously encouraged her, allowed her some ambitions, fed her dreams, given up his morning to affirm the legitimacy of her vision. Not to mention chaperone her and then temporarily disappeared behind the curtains, leaving her at center stage in this important drama. Even now, relatively early in my son’s life, I know how difficult it is to do that: recognize and affirm a child’s desires, often subordinating your own. I think we imagine ourselves opening doors for our children, blazing trails, showing them the way. But here was a parent who stood behind his child, who watched her from a distance, who had delivered her to the entrance of a world where she seemed to me to have some real chance at finding herself. Bravely, he helped her to find a role model – an old-fashioned word – in somebody other than only himself. He didn’t, says this writer, necessarily look like a writer. And for the purpose of this lesson, I need to believe he wasn’t. I am, of course, confident he was a reader. I don’t doubt that this father had spent hours reading to his little future scribe, bringing to her pictures and voices and words, and letting her choose. A full basket. I had my parenting metaphor for the morning. I picked up my own basket, and took my son’s hand, and his cousin’s. There would be a lot of baskets to help these two kids fill, and my job would be to help. Lisa Alvarez is a regular contributor. For Letters: ocfamily.com and click on Feedback. |
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