One evening, while my husband and I were occupied with our own affairs, our 12-year-old son approached us with a revelation. “I,” he expressed – in a soft, not commanding tone – “am not A Books Person.”
Without exchanging glances, his father and I mentally prepared ourselves for the situation at hand. It typically falls upon me to navigate through familial, emotional, and parental crises, and this particular scenario seemed to encompass all aspects of my responsibilities.
“I understand,” I responded cautiously. “How long have you held this sentiment?”
“I have always identified as Not a Books Person,” he emphasized – the significance of the statement growing apparent. “While I used to enjoy reading, my preference now lies with computers. Farewell.”
With that declaration, he retreated to his room, where, upon reflection, an abundance of technological gadgets, wires, unidentified electronic components, and glowing screens now outnumbered the cherished dog-eared volumes.
“And what,” my husband pondered after a brief silence, “are we to make of that?”
“Are you referring to the child or the revelation?” I inquired.
“I’ll be returning the child,” he quipped. “The warranty lasts for 18 years, correct? This one seems to be defective.”
It undeniably marks an unforeseen development. Our son hails from a lineage of avid readers. His father, to my knowledge, has delved into every classic work of literature and a myriad of non-fiction pieces (with a penchant for naval history, the Suez Crisis, and other subjects that leave me bewildered).
While my inclination leans more towards fiction, we both possess insatiable reading appetites. Our home is adorned with books, whether read, awaiting perusal, or revisited. I have authored a few myself, including one titled Bookworm, with the subtitle “A memoir of childhood reading.”
Being a bookworm from birth, I have embraced this identity wholeheartedly over the years. Acquiring and delving into books – two interconnected yet distinct pastimes – continue to bring me immense joy, although as I age, gardening competes for my attention.
However, how do I process this revelation? In the grand scheme of things, it may seem trivial. Among the myriad of announcements a child may make from adolescence onward, this is not one to cause alarm. Yet, I cannot deny feeling unsettled. Confronting one’s own biases, having expectations challenged and overturned, is a profound experience.
I had anticipated him to be a reader, an individual who appreciates books. The fact that he does not align with this expectation, despite being surrounded by literature and read to nightly since infancy, despite growing up in a book-centric environment that never imposed reading on him, suggests our influence over him is less substantial than presumed.
This, in turn, implies a diminished ability to guide and safeguard him, a realization with which I am not entirely comfortable.
Moreover, and forgive my bluntness, it appears to be an act of ingratitude. After all – I brought him into this world, did I not? I bore him (a lengthy and painful process), nurtured him (with dedicated effort – I invested significant time), ensured his well-being, sustenance, and provision. The least he could do is mirror the best aspects of myself and introduce me to new perspectives on familiar pleasures, right?
Yet, midway through this introspection, one recognizes that a significant portion of parenting stems from narcissism, abruptly halting akin to Road Runner evading an impending anvil. How audacious to assume they would blindly follow in one’s footsteps. Despite apparent efforts to foster their independence, recognize their unique talents and potential, one’s subconscious desire may have been a replica. A disconcerting realization indeed.
Furthermore, I hold reading in high regard, almost as a moral virtue. If he lacks interest in it – what does that signify? Have I failed him in some manner? Has he failed me (“Us,” my husband interjects. “Indeed, completely”)? What will our future conversations entail? Will we merely exchange distant waves from the realms of technology and English Literature?
At that moment, I acknowledge that, like all parents, I am inherently self-absorbed, perhaps inadequately so. My anxiety and apprehension do not solely revolve around books or reading (“Mine does,” his father remarks. “Because he’s bound to be a fool”). It pertains to this declaration serving as his initial assertion of self, the initial step towards individuation that inevitably, rightfully, naturally – for what other purpose do we exist – occurs in every maternal relationship. (And perhaps paternal relationships as well – I must broaden my scope beyond the current solitary example, currently engrossed in the notion of warranties).
How does one come to terms with this recent development and the accompanying unwelcome self-awareness? The answer eludes me for now.
Nevertheless, in the time since The Announcement, we have entrusted him with our technological dilemmas (an abundance of which arises, given our status as two freelance journalists unfamiliar with distinguishing one end of a Wi-Fi device from the other), marveling as he swiftly resolves them and returns functioning devices to us, sparing us the need to seek assistance or relinquish substantial sums at phone repair counters. It’s akin to having our personal IT department. As a family, we are better prepared for the challenges of life.
As it turns out, perhaps what we truly did not require was Another Books Person.