Musings: A Mother's Gift of Reading
A daughter received the gift of reading from her mother in India, and she passed it on to her son in the United States even before he was born.
While preparing for my baby shower in 2016, a family friend had an ingenious idea. She suggested that instead of a card, guests could be asked to gift a children’s book with their inscription. The book did not have to be new; a book from a cousin’s old collection would be even better to build a personalized library full of memories. Having been a reading addict my whole life, I jumped at the idea. What a thrill that my child could have his very own library even before he was born!
Growing up as an only child in Bombay, reading was my best friend. I discovered pretty early on that I’d never be bored and would never need to knock on doors in my apartment building to ask my friends to play with me. I would also not have to plead with my parents to take me places because a good book could take me farther than the Indian Railways ever could. I read incessantly. Everything ranging from the Indian epics, Amar Chitra Katha comics and magazines like Champak to books by authors such as Enid Blyton, Nancy Drew and Roald Dahl.
All my family members were readers, except my mother. She was a busy working mom and never had the time to read. But she had the insight to nurture my passion. Her license meant validation for a lifelong gift that has made me an independent and reflective person.
At the baby shower this gift was coming full circle. It was my turn now.
The idea was met with great enthusiasm and I received a heap of books. Before me lay classics of children’s literature: Panchatantra, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, The Runaway Bunny, The Jungle Book, etc. I piled them on a bookshelf I had bought for the baby—the very first piece of furniture I placed in his room. Was it too early to start reading? I decided not. I read to him in utero.
Every mother I knew said I would have no time to read as a new mom. They were not entirely wrong. But I continued to read every day, whether it was a page, a sentence or a word. Sometimes I read aloud to my baby from my novel. Within the time limitations of motherhood, my relationship with my own reading changed from that of an indulgent pass time to a revered activity. Reading became a reward for long days of mothering. It was a ticket to experience older selves as well as selves yet to come. Months passed in an exhausted twilight and soon my son was about nine months old, the recommended age to start reading to your child.
I read several books to him every night. I knew he enjoyed them, but I myself had never loved children’s literature like this before. I found a lyrical comfort in the well-chosen words, a rhythmic cradle in the sounds and amusement in the simple stories about animals, people and stars in the sky. My son giggled, laughed and begged for more in baby sign language. Soon we had read all the books in our personal collection.
Now he is four and a superstar at our local library. He asks for books by certain authors and subjects and makes sure that his mom has reserved these books through online requests. His vocabulary is a bubbling mix of colloquial children’s words and adult phrases, sometimes literally out of a Dickens novel!
This Mother’s Day, I do not foresee a luxury spa experience to relax; instead I see myself sneaking in bed with my novel until I see my son walking down the hall with a heavy pile of books in his order of preference and ask, “Is it reading time yet?”
“Yes,” I’ll say, motioning him to jump onto the bed. “It’s always reading time.”
Preeti Hay is a South Carolina-based writer whose writings have appeared in publications including The Times of India, India Currents, Yoga International and anthologies of fiction and poetry. To comment on this story, please write to letters@khabar.com.
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