A bit of molded rubber, painted and affixed to a board book: all you need for magic.
That penguin finger puppet, with my finger inside, made each turned page an epic journey as a hatchling sought his long-lost parents. The penguin was alive. He hunted, moped, squawked with full animation, and the moment the story began my son came alive as well, eyes wide, grabbing the penguin and yanking him (and the book) up to his mouth for a good chewing. No question about what his favorite story was — he loved the one that acted itself out right before his eyes.
He’s fifteen months now. Tonight I found the penguin book hidden on a shelf between larger tomes. I pulled the puppet over my finger and called my son.
He took a brief glance and without expression turned away.
Oh gray and drab, the death of magic! He’s a worldly man now — experienced, jaded. Live miniature penguin telling a story? Been there, done that.
Somewhere inside is still a little boy who’s enchantable. From now on, though, it’s going to take more work.
October 29, 2006 at 1:10 am |
Of course I haven’t parented through the teen years yet — but it’s interesting to see how many small interactions now foreshadow the larger ones to come. The small disappointment I felt in seeing him spurn our friend the penguin will be replayed many more times, I’m sure, and with larger stakes. Such is growing up. I just hope I can help him preserve a sense of wonder …