One afternoon, I returned home from the bookstore with a beautifully wrapped hardcover copy of “Misty of Chincoteague,” a classic tale by Marguerite Henry about two children enamored with a wild pony. I inscribed it for my 6-year-old son, just as my mother had done for me years ago. We snuggled together in bed for a reading session, but just three pages in, he started inquiring whether people ever used spaghetti as dental floss. I urged him to be quiet because the story was about to become exciting, and we would soon meet Misty’s mother, Phantom. I couldn’t believe he just wiped his nose on the back of the book!
Night after night, the enchanting narrative of Misty failed to captivate him—unless you consider the book’s surprisingly effective sleep-inducing qualities. I soon had to face the reality that my son wasn’t going to develop a passion for collecting plastic horses or galloping around the yard on an imaginary Misty. I must admit, it was a rather dull book, and my hopes were dashed.
My partner faced a similar disappointment with the original Muppets movie, which our son found uninteresting and charm-less. We couldn’t help but worry that this indicated a lack of warmth in our otherwise delightful child. Small letdowns occurred, like how could anyone dislike the candy Nerds? And larger ones, such as his indifference to whether E.T. made it home.
In these frustrating moments, it’s tempting to blame our child and later grumble to my partner that it’s the influence of his friends or the excessive viewing of certain shows. There’s also a phase of denial, convincing ourselves that he simply didn’t grasp the nuances of Misty or The Muppets at 5 but would surely appreciate them at 6. We even tried bargaining—ice cream for his attention and an open mind. Ultimately, though, I came to understand that my desire for him to appreciate my childhood favorites was perhaps a reflection of my own insecurities. Sharing something beloved and having it dismissed can feel like a personal affront, which is unfair, yet entirely human.
Nevertheless, I persisted. With only one television in the house, there are moments when the thought of enduring another episode of Spongebob becomes unbearable. Recently, I brought home the 1988 film “Big” from the local video store. I aimed to keep my excitement in check and didn’t overreact when my son sat expressionless during the scene where Tom Hanks and his friend pretended to squirt silly string from their noses.
As we settled under our blanket in the living room, watching this delightful film about the joys and challenges of growing up, I realized the true intent behind sharing these cherished stories with my son. I want him to relish his childhood, to resist the urge to rush through these precious moments, and to embrace new narratives with unfiltered enthusiasm. There’s a unique way of experiencing things in youth—marked by simplicity and affection.
At the movie’s conclusion, as Tom Hanks’ character came to the realization that he wanted to hold onto his childhood, my son turned to me and exclaimed, “That was the best movie ever!” I maintained my composure, replying, “Really? I love it too.”
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In summary, sharing beloved childhood stories with our children can be a complex emotional journey. While they may not always respond as we hope, the essence of parenting lies in the moments we create together.