If you wanted to find me as a child, all you had to do was look in the nearest corner and I’d be more than likely sat in it with my nose buried in a book.
I had loads of favourites, from Enid to Blyton, to Roald Dahl, to Judy Blume.
Which is why, when on having kids of my own, I suddenly had an excuse to re-buy all my favourites from my childhood. Not for me, you understand.
For the KIDS.
The Tiger Who Came to Tea, and The Very Hungry Caterpillar were added to the already bulging bookcase, among others.
It’s easy to introduce the classics when the children are small, and to incorporate them into the bedtime routine so that they become firm favourites of theirs as well.
What about when they become older though, and decide to choose their own books? It’s not so easy then.
I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve tried to encourage a bit of Enid Blyton adventure to my boys.
OK, they’ll probably deem Malory Towers too ‘girly’, that’s fair enough. I know they won’t harbour secret dreams of sitting round the swimming pool at midnight with a load of mouldy old girls eating sardines out of the tin and swigging ginger beer.
You’d think they’d be receptive to a bit of the Famous Five though. Kids going off camping and having adventures by themselves for the entire week?
Gunmen following them, ruffians chasing them etc.
It’s exciting, isn’t it?!
Nope. They didn’t get further than the first page because they read the words “Dick” and Fanny” for names and started rolling around the floor in hysterics.
Give. Me. STRENGTH.
With the eldest though, he’s started reading David Walliam’s books and the Diary of a Wimpy Kid series.
He absolutely loves them and asks for more.
So, do you know what I have realised? It doesn’t matter what they’re into bookwise, as long as they’re actually READING.
I’d rather he was reading his own books and building his own memories than not reading at all.
Bring on the books.