By YVONNE LEE SHU YEE
PRIOR to becoming a mother, I was a flight stewardess. One day, I was on a flight filled with families travelling with children. On such a flight, scenes of restless children tearing down the aisle, throwing tantrums and flinging peanuts at their siblings were not unusual. How I wished those kids had left their bad behaviours in the departure hall’s thrash bin.
When chaos was the norm, imagine my delight when I met this very well-behaved four-year-old who was travelling with his mother. He came on board clutching a blue Mickey Mouse backpack.
After settling down, he opened his bag and out tumbled an assortment of books. He chose one, propped it on his lap and his mum leaned close to watch him read. Throughout the flight, the twosome engaged in their reading session quietly. Mum was pointing while the boy was enunciating the words softly, from beginning to end of each book.
That poster boy of a perfect child made me vow to have kids, despite being only 19 and single then. I wanted a kid like that boy. I was sold by the idea that reading curbs a kid’s restlessness and improves behaviour.
When I finally became a mother and attempted to instill the reading habit in my kids, I realised it was no instant magic. The fact remains that inculcating reading in young children takes consistent effort and time.
My eldest child, Eva, took to reading like duck to water. As a firstborn, she had my undivided attention. Every day, we pored over nugget books, enjoyed reading activities and sang nursery rhymes that nurtured her love for books. We spent most outings at bookstores, where we parked ourselves for ages. She became an avid reader.
One of the wonders of reading is that it makes a child inquisitive. Eva was so excited to discover more about Egyptian mummies, ghosts, local folklore and ancient cultures.
Occasionally, her inquisitive edge hit me at the wrong time. Like when I was battling to salvage a half-burnt chicken in the kitchen, and she asked: “Mum, what is abominate?”
I muttered something about the abdomen, hoping that it would appease her while I went back to fix the matter at hand. But a nagging voice from my conscience made me say: “Sorry dear, I think I don’t know. But let’s find out.” We read out from the dictionary: “Abdominate. To hate, to despise.” The precocious reader made me realise I should not bluff and that learning is a life-long thing.
My second child was a different story. Unlike his sister who loved reading by herself, he only wanted to be read to. For him reading meant: You read, I listen. Unlike his peers who loved all sorts of kids’ books, he only went for books on aviation, automobiles and the inventions of other mean machines. At bookstores, he begged me to buy such books with prices enough to make me drop like a battered war plane.
Reading sessions with him were quite an nightmare. He made me pore over engine diagrams more complicated than the human anatomy and ride through aviation jargons detailing plane parts, power projection, fuel consumption and other terminologies I hardly understood. After some years as his “aviation literature regurgitator”, I was glad when he finally progressed to reading independently. He’s now 11.
I am going through the “read-to-me” experience all over again with my third child, an 18-month-old boy. Kids love being read to. Joel is no different. Every day when Joel sees me sitting cross-legged on the floor, he instantly runs to me with his favourite Thomas The Tank Engine book in hand. With him on my lap, I wrap my arms around his small shoulders, smell his soft hair beneath my chin and feel the heat of his bum on my lap. As we indulge in a reading session, I look forward to the day when I can hear his little voice fall in cadence with mine as we read together.
Dad has a part to play, too
So, where is Daddy when it’s time for reading? Well, he likes to believe that reading to kids is essentially a mum’s job. Until one incident changed his attitude.
One day, he came back from work looking like he had excavated shipwrecks from the Straits of Malacca. At the doorstep, our then six-year-old daughter held a book to him and cried: “Read, Daddy, read!” Brusquely, he brushed off her request and asked her to go read by herself.
With a crestfallen look, she went to a corner and sobbed: “I can read but I don’t understand the meaning.” Daddy was awashed with guilt. Though reeking like fermented cabbage, he sat to read to her.
Every family that places a premium on reading has a story to tell. I’m sure most would agree that reading nurtures better vocabulary, attention span, mental development and parent-child bonding. Every child who receives a strong reading foundation has a life-long gift that he can pass to the next generation.
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