Tuesday, March 17, 2009

The Problem With A Child Who Can Read

We have waited and prayed for this moment. We are two readers, lovers of books, plays, poems, conversation and words. When, when, when we asked, would our darling boy's world open up so that he could read and go find all the stories he loved on his own. And now he can. And it is pretty amazing. But it is also turning out to cramp our communication style in major ways. If we were immigrants, who spoke in our own language, but did not teach our children, we would be fine. Or, if we were scholars who had both mastered the same other language, say Japanese, Russian, Sanskrit or Laotian, we would be fine.

But now, when Jonathan spells out words and sentences to avoid comprehension by our precocious 6-year-old, he does it at his own peril. I mean what is a more motivating spelling exercise than deciphering something you know your parents do not want you to hear. My father is a wonderful man, but sometimes eccentric. I will not go into detail here. So last night Jonathan spelled out: "Your p-a-d-r-e is a m-a-d-m-a-n." He did it fast, and he mixed two languages. But we looked over and there was Theo, sounding it out. Padre. Madman.

I didn't even want to wait to hear him put it all together. Spelling still takes great concentration.

"Bathtime," I yelled. "Now! now! now! If you want a story, Go!"

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