Sometimes when you are rooting around in the attic, basement or garage you chance upon a shoebox containing the treasures of your childhood. Mine, I am embarrassed to admit, contains a Gameboy. This was given to me by my grandmother in 1989 for my 9th birthday. She succeeded where my parents had spectacularly failed the previous year by giving me a Tomy Tutor Play Computer which was, as far as I was rightly concerned, a toy for toddlers. This relic of my boyhood confirms it will be an act of utter hypocrisy should I ever reproach my son for excessive screen time as I reflect how much time I wasted on Tetris, Super Mario Land and Speedball 2.
The Gameboy was, without doubt, my number one possession. But there is a reason why it lies in the attic caked in dust. The possessions of childhood are just that. Their worth and value do not endure into adulthood. What does endure and what you carry with you forever are your memories and experiences. My fondest memories are not of playing computer games but instead assembling my costume with my father for the annual fête champêtre at Claremont Landscape Gardens just outside London.
It is hard to describe what a magical experience this was, like the best fancy dress party you've ever been to, with music, dancing, fireworks, exploring and everyone dressed to the nines. An 18th century recreation in an 18th century place that made Alice in Wonderland real just for one night. Childhood is golden when imagination meets adventure; preferably watching an orange sky purpling over a darkening lake as dragonflies hover lazily around. Anyway that was the best part of my childhood - Yours, no doubt, was completely different.
One of the more abstract tasks of a parent is reflecting upon your own childhood and selecting what was of value and rejecting what was worthless in a bid to pass on only the good to your offspring. This is an imperfect exercise and so the daughter of a domineering father endeavours never to tell her son what to do and in the process fails even gently to guide him in the right direction. The son of a feckless and spendthrift mother keeps his daughter at her books and never makes any provision for even a little bit of fun. The pendulum swings from generation to generation. Or you watch in horror as the shortcomings that you vowed would never characterise your parenting bubble up to the surface despite your best efforts.
I have no idea what my son's passions will be but I hope very much and will do all I can to ensure that one of them is reading. My mother got me reading often and early and our favourite book by far was Eric Linklater's Pirates in the Deep Green Sea written in 1949. Driving to court today I was reminded of happy hours curled in her arms plunging once again to Davy Jones' Locker. The thing that triggered this recollection was Howard Shore's score for Lord of the Rings playing on the radio. I only came to Tolkien in my twenties. So excited was I at the thought of sharing this epic with my son some day soon I actually had a lump in my throat as I crawled along the M6.
I'm no expert but I do know that whatever is good for children books are best.
