Parenting, Love, and Books
Sharing My Childhood Books with My Daughter
These are more than just hand-me-downs
I love books. I love how they feel in my hand. The weight, the smell, the crisp rustling sound of the pages turning.
I have books that I have lovingly preserved over a lifetime of reading, gently wrapping them in their dust jackets and carefully straightening bent pages. I’ve even kept the cardboard box that holds the complete set of Little House on the Prairie books intact for 25 years.
Of course, since I love books, I love reading. Reading was an escape hatch for me. I was a shy and awkward kid, and when I read about the heroes and heroines of these distant times and places I felt like I could be them. Like I could do anything.
I’ve passed this love of reading on to my eight-year-old. She is also awkward and very lonely at times, especially during this past year of on-again-off-again lockdowns.
As you might expect, I was excited to share these special books with my eager reader. But there’s just one problem.
My daughter is a destructo-saurus.
She doesn’t mean to be, but she’s very excitable and easily distracted. She will often tidy her room in a panic because she got distracted creating a sock puppet out of her school stocking instead of cleaning up.
She will toss toys into boxes with wild abandon, stuff clothes into her wardrobe with no regard to their hangers, and jam books onto shelves haphazardly. Pages get mashed and mangled as one book is shoved onto another. Covers have been torn clean off.
She’s devastated each time when she discovers the damaged book. She holds it up to me like a child in a Hallmark movie might bring her mother a bird with a broken wing.
“Can you fix it?”
At first, I would get mad at her. I thought she would outgrow this sloppy stage. I threatened that I wouldn’t let her keep the “good books" on her bookshelf if this was how she would treat them.
For a long time, we kept these special books on a high shelf. I only took them down when I read them TO her. I was like a dragon guarding my horde.
Until I realised why these books were so special to me.
Many years ago, my own mom read these same books to me. Her words trundled across the American prairie in the wagon with Laura and Mary. She made special voices for Charlotte and Wilbur. She introduced me to my first “grown-up book” by reading me (very on-the-fly censored) excerpts from The Hot Zone.
When I got old enough to read these books on my own, they were portals. Not only to the stories contained between their paperback covers but to those shared moments with my mom.
I wanted that for my daughter.
So I gave her the books.
Keeping those books pristine wasn’t as important to me when I saw the joy and excitement on her face when I told her she could put them on her bookshelf.
I have to admit, it pained me to discover she had doodled her name all over the once pristine Little House box. She thought I would get mad, but I shrugged it off, even though a small part of me was horrified. I wince a little when she pulls the now battered copy of Farmer Boy out from under her pillow. I keep myself from sighing when I remind her yet again to not use Charlotte’s Web as a drawing mat.
It is one hundred per cent worth. it.
I get to hear her tell me about the chapter she read last night. She talks about when snuggled in bed and I read the same chapter before. I get to talk to her about new details she’s noticed and how her opinions of the characters have changed.
It’s worth all the dings and doodles just to hear her tell me that she can’t wait to read these books to her baby sister.
Even though I love books, I’ve mostly let go of having them stay perfect. Sharing these stories and a love of reading with my kids is what really matters. I am glad I gave her the books. If we need to fix them, there’s always tape. Sigh…
