One afternoon, with little fanfare, I returned home from the bookstore, a tissue-wrapped hardcover of Misty of Chincoteague in hand, Marguerite Henry’s beloved tale of two farm children and a wild pony. I carefully inscribed it for my 6-year-old, just as my mother had done for me. We snuggled in bed, ready to dive into the story, but just three pages in, my daughter began speculating whether people ever used noodles for floss. I urged her to hush, explaining that we were about to meet Misty’s mother, Phantom, and—please tell me you didn’t just smudge one of your boogers on the back cover of Misty of Chincoteague!
Night after night, the enchantment of Misty seemed to bounce off her, the only magic occurring when the book lured her into sleep. I soon accepted that my daughter wouldn’t be inspired to collect plastic horses or pretend to ride Misty around the yard, and she certainly wouldn’t explain how Misty of Chincoteague mysteriously disappeared to the bottom of her laundry hamper while we were only two-thirds through what I now reluctantly admit is a rather dull book.
My husband faced a similar disappointment with the original Muppets movie. Our child found them tedious and uninspiring, which made us wonder if she had a heart of stone despite her otherwise lovely nature. There were small letdowns—how can a child not enjoy Nerds candy?—and larger ones, like her disinterest in discovering whether E.T. made it home.
In such blasphemous moments, it’s easy to blame the child, whispering to my husband later that it’s her clueless friends or perhaps too much Jessie on Nick Jr. Kids today and their poor tastes! Denial kicked in, with the hope that Misty or The Muppets were simply beyond her comprehension at 5, and she’d appreciate them more at 6. Then came bargaining—ice cream in exchange for her attention and an open mind. Ultimately, though, I reached a level of acceptance that perhaps I was being a bit needy. The fear of recommending something dear to you, only to have it dismissed or rejected, feels like a personal affront—a strange betrayal that feels unfair yet so very human.
But you keep trying, especially when there’s only one TV in the house and you can’t bear another minute of Spongebob. Recently, I rented the 1988 film Big. I aimed to keep my enthusiasm in check, not overreacting when my daughter sat expressionless as Tom Hanks and his friend squirted silly string from their nostrils.
As we curled up together on our blanket in the living room, watching this perfect film about the joys and challenges of growing up, I realized what I truly hoped for in sharing my childhood favorites. I want my daughter to cherish these years, to resist the urge to fast forward through life, to embrace new stories and ideas with unguarded joy. There’s a unique way children connect to things—an effortless affection that seems to fade with age.
When the movie concluded, and Tom Hanks reflected on his desire to remain a child, my daughter turned to me and exclaimed, “That was the best movie ever!” I maintained my composure. “Really? You think so?” I replied. “I love it too.”
In conclusion, sharing childhood treasures with our children can be a journey of both hope and humility. It’s a reminder to embrace simplicity and joy, allowing the magic of stories to enrich our lives together.