GEN: Raising a Reader

[Paula Zsiray <ZSIRAYP@MCADM.MCHS.CACHE.K12.UT.US>]

FYI-
This was in the Deseret News out of Salt Lake City, Utah, this a.m.
Just for interest...


http://www.desnews.com/newtdy/j20tk81s.htm

      Raising a reader

      Books give us the thrill and the adventure of what happens next.


      Last updated 03/23/1997, 12:01 a.m. MST

      By Sallie Tisdale
      Parenting magazine

      We are readers, my husband and I, given to long silences with books on the 
couch
      by the fireplace. We have rooms full of books. Our daughter, now 12, has grown
      up around them. Much of the talk she's heard all these years has been about 
books,
      and our afternoon walks lead to the library as often as not. Annie Rose has 
watched
      us read, day after day, night after night, for as long as she can remember. 
She loves
      stories, their notion and design, their seductive escape. Yet for a long 
time, she
      couldn't read.
         This saddened me, because I love
      reading with the kind of unreasonable
      passion only another reader can
      appreciate. I wanted Annie Rose to
      find the same satisfaction in books that
      I've found. So until she was 10 years
      old, we read to her every single night.
      Then we told her, "You need to learn
      to read to yourself," and she cried.
      "Please read to me," she begged. But
      we stood firm.
         Left alone with the simplest of Dr.
      Seuss, she started to read a little. It
      was work, laborious work. Through her closed door, I sometimes heard her
      sounding out words. For the past few years, she's had to read every night for
      homework and has gradually moved on to more complex books. I've always
      known, though, that it was labor, not joy.
         Academics of all sorts trouble Annie Rose. She struggles wildly with 
numbers.
      Playing Monopoly, she throws a 3 and a 6 and starts counting the dots, and I 
say,
      "Don't look! What's 3 and 6?" She answers, grasping at straws, hopeful, "12?" 
I
      groan and we count the dots again. That part of her brain doesn't work very 
well,
      and never will.
         Nor can she spell, exactly; she finds written language unpredictable and
      problematic. Every day she methodically writes out her spelling words, 10 
times
      each, but midway down the page the letters shift position, and by the end the 
list
      reads like a game of Telephone _ a whole new word has emerged. The next day
      she tries again, and again the words slide away.
          I've never complained, though. Her simple presence is a miracle. We 
adopted
      her when she was 2. She had been quite ill and didn't walk or talk. Doctors 
made
      terrible predictions. For years, all we wanted was her health. When we got 
that, all
      we wanted was for her to catch up to her peers. Now she finds her way among
      them, step by step. She is lithe, strong, funny, a defender of underdogs, 
forgiver of
      sins. There is nothing to complain about when you're the mother of Miss
      Congeniality, who beats you at Monopoly by sheer audacious luck, saying, "Mom,
      this just isn't your night." You count your blessings and pay the rent on 
Boardwalk.
         Not long ago, after yet another Monopoly victory, Annie Rose asked, as 
usual,
      if she could watch a little television. As usual, I said, "Yes, for a while." 
She headed
      into the TV room, and I grabbed my book and headed for the couch by the
      fireplace. After about 10 minutes, a miracle occurred.
         She came trudging out of the room, flung herself over the arm of the 
couch, and
      said, "There's nothing on TV I want to see." I had never known my daughter to
      resist the charms of Nick at Nite before, but I didn't say anything. She 
paused,
      considering. "Anyway, I want to know what happens next." And Annie Rose
      grabbed her paperback scary story, sprawled out on the couch beside me, and
      read. For an hour. We didn't talk. Now and then I put a log on the fire, and 
now
      and then I heard a gasp or a groan as she turned the page. We read together, 
until I
      pointed out the time and sent her off to bed.
         Reading.
         Who knows which of the many things we do around our children will be a seed
      for the future? I grew up with a reading mother. She taught school and ran a
      household and watched "The Mike Douglas Show" every day, but what I remember
      most is that she read. She would sit in the same chair under the same lamp 
every
      afternoon, a big hardcover library book on her lap. Day after day after day. 
She
      didn't tell me to read. She simply took me to the library and let me look at 
her
      books if I wanted to, and from a very early age, I wanted to read, too.
         I'm sure my daughter has absorbed some of the same associations from me. 
But
      the thrills and comforts of reading itself she has had to discover alone.
         Perhaps it is the stability that appeals to her _ having something 
constant and
      solid to count on when everything else is changing. You can't curl up on the 
couch
      with a TV or a video game or a computer. And you can't curl up with someone 
else
      on the couch with anything but a book. Only books allow us to be together,
      separately. I wanted her to have that experience, the one only books can 
give. With
      books we sit beside each other but venture out alone, sharing the marvelous
      adventure of finding out what happens next _ which is one of the delights of 
having
      a child in the first place.


      Writer Sallie Tisdale lives in the Pacific Northwest.



Paula Zsiray                zsirayp@mcadm.mchs.cache.k12.ut.us
Mountain Crest High         Library Media Teacher
School 255 South 800 East   VOICE (801)245-6093
Hyrum, Utah   84319         FAX (801)245-3818

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