One of the most perfect perks of parenting is reading with my kids. Bedtime in our house takes way longer than it should, since I’m just as curious to see what happens in the next chapter as my kids are. We’re about to start on the Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder, which were my favorite books on the planet when I was a kid. Considering the teensy rural Montana town I grew up in, Laura was pretty much a contemporary of mine. I have a hunch my seven-year old daughter will love them as much as me. BUT I’m dreading the inevitable questions like, “Mom, did you travel by horse and buggy when you were a kid?” I get those questions all the time. I’ve been asked if I was alive during the Revolutionary War. Or when Lincoln was president. And if coins existed when I was in school. Maybe I’m not so ready for the Little House books after all.
I’m getting off the point, here. As much fun as all those books are, the highlight of my reading-as-a-parent life has been sharing the world of Harry Potter with my wild children. I devoured those books when they first came out, back before Sam and Sophie were ever in the picture. I was in awe of J.K. Rowling’s world-building ability and the way her characters practically leaped off the page. And the over-arching message that love wins. I dreamed of the day when I could share them with kids of my own. That day seemed as far away as Hogwarts, but it came faster than a golden snitch.
We started the first of the seven books about three years ago. Sophie was a bit young, so we read them primarily to Sam. But Sophie’s never been one to miss out on anything, so she experienced the magical wizarding world, too. We read them at bedtime. We read them on road trips. We tried to imitate Hagrid’s loud, Scottish brogue, Voldemort’s high whisper, Professor Umbridge’s sinister giggle, dreamy Luna’s spacey voice. Our rule was that we had to finish the book before we watched the movie. And we watched those movies on lazy Saturday mornings in our pajamas, piled together on the couch. (It had to be mornings, so the images of dementors could burn off well before bedtime.)
Now, I’m snuffling in my butterbeer. After seven books, 4100 pages, and eight movies, we’ve reached those dreaded words . . . THE END. When we were almost finished with The Deathly Hallows – the last book in the series, I made a silent vow not to slip into hysterics when I read the closing lines. Well, that wasn’t my problem. SPOILER WARNING – Skip this paragraph if you haven’t read the last book. My problem came a few chapters prior to the end, when Harry accepts his fate and marches to what he believes is his final battle with Voldemort. Beloved spirits of those he had lost appear to him – including his parents. My attempts at reading the part where Harry and his mother are finally reunited crashed like a faulty Nimbus 2000. My voice resembled that of a choking kitten, and my throat felt like I’d swallowed a box of Weasley’s Wildfire Whizbangs. Darrick took over reading while tears ran down my face. Yes, I’m a ridiculous soft touch. But I love that books have the power to evoke our deepest emotions.
In an interview with Oprah, Rowling talked about how a young woman in her twenties came up to her on the street and said, “You are my childhood.” Rowling was blown away. I completely understand what that young woman meant. Sam and Sophie will play for hours, building entire Hogwarts villages and scenes and characters out of Legos. Great battles are waged in our living room, curses and magic spells zinging off the walls. When my kids are grown, there is no doubt that Harry will have his very own Room of Requirement in their heart’s memory of childhood.
A few years ago, Sam dressed up like Harry Potter for Halloween. He had the cute little glasses, the rumpled hair, the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. Just as he was getting ready to catch the bus, I reminded him not to forget his wand. He rolled his eyes and with such an earnest voice said, “Mom. You can’t bring weapons to school.” Ah, good point.
We’ve been full on Harry Potter for years now. I’m eternally grateful to Rowling for the joy she’s brought to the world and for the spark she lit in Sam’s and Sophie’s imagination. Seriously, I would willingly and with a glad heart clean Rowling’s oven for the rest of my life if she was my neighbor. But since she’s a bazillionaire, she’s probably got a self-cleaning oven that actually works.
Just the other day, Sophie, who is in second grade and just learning to read chapter books on her own, brought me the well-worn first book of the series, “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.” It’s in rough shape. The spine is broken, the cover is ripped, and the first several pages have fallen out. When she asked if we could fix it, my heart skipped a beat. I told her we could, or if not, we would get another copy.
Sophie wants to try to read the books on her own, starting from the very beginning.
It looks like our adventures with Harry may not be over just yet.
What were your favorite childhood books? Any new loves you’ve discovered reading with your kids?