One afternoon, with little fanfare, I returned from the bookstore clutching a beautifully wrapped hardbound edition of Misty of Chincoteague, the beloved tale by Marguerite Henry about two kids and their affection for a wild pony. I lovingly inscribed it for my 6-year-old, just as my mother once did for me. Snuggled up in bed, I was eager to dive into the story. But just a few pages in, my daughter began pondering if people ever used noodles to floss their teeth. I quickly redirected her, hoping to capture the magic of the unfolding narrative—only to catch her stealthily wiping her nose on the back cover.
Night after night, the enchantment of Misty seemed to bounce off her like a rubber ball—unless you count its ability to lull her to sleep. As much as I longed for her to be inspired to collect plastic horses or gallop around the yard on an imaginary Misty, I had to face the truth: she was not going to hold much affection for what I once cherished.
My husband shared a similar disappointment with the classic Muppets movie. To our horror, our daughter found them dull and uninteresting, leading us to question her taste. How could anyone resist the charm of box candy Nerds? And when it came to E.T., she simply wasn’t interested in whether he made it back home—talk about a heartbreaker!
In those moments, it was all too easy to blame her peers or to chalk it up to her excessive viewing of Jessie on Nick Jr. Kids these days, right? Then came the denial phase, where I convinced myself that perhaps she just wasn’t ready for Misty at 5, but would surely embrace it at 6. I even tried bargaining—ice cream for her undivided attention! Ultimately, though, I had to accept that perhaps I was the one being a bit needy. It’s a strange fear to recommend something you love, especially when that love has been cherished since childhood. When it’s dismissed, it can feel like a personal affront—a slight betrayal from someone you adore.
But the quest continues, especially when you’re stuck with only one TV and can’t bear another second of SpongeBob SquarePants. Recently, I brought home the 1988 film Big from the video store. I tried not to oversell it, keeping my enthusiasm in check as my daughter sat, expressionless, during Tom Hanks’ silly string antics.
As we cozied up on our blanket in the living room, watching this delightful film about the joys and trials of growing up, I realized what I truly hoped for: I want my daughter to savor her childhood, to resist the temptation to rush through it, and to embrace new stories with open-hearted enthusiasm. There’s a unique way children connect with things, full of simplicity and affection.
At the end of the movie, after a reflective Tom Hanks decided he didn’t want to miss out on being a kid, my daughter turned to me and declared, “That was the best movie ever!” I played it cool, responding, “Really? I think it’s great too.”
If you’re interested in more parenting insights, check out this post on our other blog, or visit this excellent resource on pregnancy for more information.
Summary:
This piece reflects on the bittersweet experience of sharing beloved childhood stories with your own children, highlighting moments of disappointment and joy. As parents, we often hope our kids will embrace the things we love, navigating the ups and downs of their tastes and preferences. Ultimately, it’s about savoring the moments of connection, whether through film or literature.