Twilight and Its Amazing Effect on a Six-Year Old's Reading
The last two books I read were utterly heavy. Beautiful Boy, a true story chronicling a father's experience with his son's destructive meth addiction and Before I Die, a fictional account of a 17-year old girl's bucket list as she sits on the edge of terminal leukemia. I was in dire need of something mindless. My brain and my soul needed an escape to some place like the screen saver that came as the default on my old computer. I needed a literary vacation.
And so, after much cajoling from my friends, I took a bite.
I have finally joined the coven of delighted and addicted Twilight readers. I've been sucked into the world of Edward and Bella. I can't remember obsessing about a book as much since I read four Harry Potter books in a week over spring break in graduate school. I have stayed up into the wee hours when only vampires lurk and woken up before dawn has cracked so I can squeeze in some peaceful reading time. It's rare I get to read in the big red comfy in the family room by myself before the house erupts in dirt and noise. I have essentially ignored my family all week as I read read read the Twilight books. I have read close to 2000 pages in just over a week. I don't know what wafts from those pages but I suspect it's akin to Vegas casinos pumping in oxygen.
I have a book with me at all times (and Stephanie Meyer doesn't write slim books so this points to my need for a Kindle!). Whether sitting around while my car is inspected, at the dentist office, or waiting for groceries to get loaded into the trunk, I'm gobbling up as many words as I can. I even eagerly anticipate car pool and admittedly get there way earlier than necessary just so I can read in peace. Twilight has become my addiction.
My husband doesn't argue because reading has kept me out of Target.
Oddly enough, the best and most unforeseen byproduct of my Edward obsession is that it has given my first grader the nudge he needs to read. Twilight was the straw that broke the reading camel's back. My six-year old Bird, who could quite handily read at the end of kindergarten, showed zero interest in reading all summer, despite my attempts to make it fun. He's a mathy kid who would do math worksheets or make musical patterns on his laptop til his fingers cramped. While he loves books, he lacks the confidence to read. He, like me, frustrates easily. We are of the ilk that gives up when we haven't mastered something adroitly. He and I focus too much on the precision of perfection rather than the journey of learning. That character flaw alone has made my life more difficult, and I am trying my damndest to make my son stray from what just might be part of his wiring.
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