(Note: Originally posted to NPR's Monkey See blog section, by Barrie Hardymon)
I
read to my kids for all sorts of reasons, but to be very honest with
you, it's less about the benefits preached in various judgy mom blogs,
and more because it's an activity I can do with them while horizontal
under blankets.
And I like the sound of my own voice. Hey, I
work in radio. Sometimes I do a version of snob narration, a vaguely
Connecticut clinch meets Downton inflection, like
I Am Bear is merely an efficient version of
David Copperfield. Sometimes
I read like a crazed kindergarten teacher, drawing out the syllables of
longer words, and riding a singsong rhythm that speeds up toward the
end, in order, of course, to get to the pleasure of my own adult
reading. (Or an episode of
The Americans.) And: I'm not proud
of it, but there are nights when I find myself reading in an automatic
monotone as my mind strays to whether or not I've left my phone in the
baby's room, or what on Earth is causing the chemical smell in the
kitchen. But there's still a kind of comfort in the vibration of your
voice as an accompaniment to domestic anxiety.
Not long ago, I got into position, curled against the pillows with my oldest son, a
Star Wars
obsessive. He's 5. We're reading the novelized version of the early
movies — movies he's never seen. He's still recovering from
Finding Nemo,
and I don't want to pollute his young mind with the image of the
charred corpses of Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru. (I'm already on the fence
about the book's illustration of Leia in the gold two-piece.)
The
books are an overwrought scaffolding — they read like a movie
treatment. Battle scenes are confusing and badly blocked. There are
flashes of personality. Darth Vader "rasps." Leia "snaps." They cover
major plot points, and there's a sense of Han Solo's dashing charm,
Luke's naivete, and Chewie's bravery. It's not Tolstoy. But it's not
Goodnight, Moon either.
And there we were, at the denouement of
The Empire Strikes Back.
Vader and Luke, locked in a lightsaber battle on the catwalk in Cloud
City. Suddenly, the red lightsaber clean chopped off Luke's hand. Hank
and I both gasped. Hank's fingers rested lightly on my arm. His mouth
breathing got louder (it's allergy season). I mentally calculated
whether or not to backtrack and say, "Oh, I meant
standoff, not hand off. Time for bed!" It was too late. I kept reading.
"Obi-Wan never told you what happened to your father ... "
"He told me you killed him," Luke snapped at his sworn enemy. "No," Darth Vader said. "I am your father."
"I,
am your father!" I stopped, and drew my breath, elated. I had said the
words. I was overcome, like the Sith Lord, by what I could do. I, his
mother, was the first one to expose what may be the greatest plot twist
since Mr. Rochester's wife turned up screaming in the attic. I was drunk
with power, and my entire history as a sentient consumer of story flew
through my head. It felt so good, I contemplated spoiling every other
thing I knew. Professor Snape is a good guy! Mary's going to go blind!
The bridge to Terabithia isn't well-constructed! Magwitch is the
mysterious benefactor! READER, I @#$%^&%$#%ING MARRIED HIM!!
I
looked at Hank. His face was slack, his cheeks quivering. He looked
like a baby again. It was the very definition of shock. He looked at me
in bafflement. "I have to tell Daddy," he said. "Do you think he knows?"
It
was a crucial moment, and I almost failed the test, because I wanted to
continue to be the main character in our story. I didn't want him to be
distracted. I wanted to let him know that Luke will never be driven to
the dark side. I wanted to keep spoiling the story, to tell him that
there would be a rapprochement, that Luke would, eventually, hold his
father in his arms as he became Anakin again. But Hank's eyes were
glossy. He needed to see his own father, to reassure himself that of all
the astonishments he would encounter, the one he would never, ever see —
was his father, masked and evil.
Hank scrambled out of bed.
"Daddy!" He screamed over the banister. "Dark Vader is Luke Skylocker's
father!" Hank's dad came up the stairs, and I saw him struggle — should
he feign ignorance? "Can you believe it?" There was a pause. My
husband's eyebrows shot skyward. "No way!" He yelled. Pleasure overtook
Hank's face, as he, too, wielded the power of the plot twist. He whirled
around and stomped back to the bed. "Yeah," he said, before he tossed
out, "Also, Obi-Wan's dead if you didn't know."
Hank climbed
back into bed. We finished the chapter. There was some light discussion
about where Luke's hand went, and whether he'd get it back. A little
back and forth on the power of the dark side, and whether it was
something that a preschooler should be aware of (answer: you have to
keep your brother's body safe, even if he pees on your Legos). And we
had a brutal negotiation about how many of his animals needed to say
goodnight to me before I sent his dad into the room for a formal
goodnight (six, including the one he'd been chewing on during the story —
reader, it was wet).
I shut the door, and put the book away. I looked at the bookshelf. I felt a slight emptiness.
"Hank, I am your father!" came booming from his room, accompanied by uncontrolled giggling. I picked up
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, and curled up, to look ahead.
