It's so fun to watch your kids fall in love with the things that you love. Finding these similarities gives me hope that perhaps I am doing something worth emulating. For the past few weeks, B has been working on a project that I remember loving when I was his age. It was the write-your-own-story-and-turn-it-into-a-book-project.
Years ago, when it was my turn to do this project I remember taking great care to make it a long story (my tragic flaw was evident early on) and to draw pictures on every page. It was a story about a clock. And because I remember feelings and gists rather than facts and details all I remember is the clock moved. But I remember loving the project.
B, who is not yet the avid reader his mother was, loved this project too. That little blank book was all his and I swear I caught him caressing it. (I admit, I wanted to hold it too.) He copied his story into it with precision. It is some of his best penmanship. I mistakenly assumed he'd most love illustrating it, but that wasn't where he placed his efforts. He just liked the totality of the activity. Kind of like me.
His Friday class finished them up and presented them on a special day last week -- complete with clear fruit juice drinks and treats brought from home. Giddy parents gathered around with our cameras to hear our children read their stories, clapping for each others' young prodigies. His teacher beamed with pride, which was okay since I felt enough to share with her.
Afterwards, I asked him if he was nervous. He said, "No." Really? I'd have wanted to hide under the table to read my story aloud. After all the solidarity I felt with him in this project, I guess that's just where we're different. Whose experience was better? It doesn't matter. But I bet you I'll catch him sleeping with that little book near his pillow.