Last week my son started reading “I Am Malala” for school. And I thought to myself, I have a child that is old enough to read the same book I read. A true story book that deals with serious real world issues.
It’s sort of weird, and I feel a little mom-mixed about it. Like part of me would like to shelter him from the harshness of the real world. Pretend that bad guys really only exist in fake movies and superhero comics. But the other part of me is rather proud that he is mature enough to handle these issues, and that he is starting to understand and have conversations about topics like these.
Then another mom part of me hopes that my side of the conversation can give him a broad view of things. I know everyone has their opinions, but I’m really trying to get my kids to see both sides of every situation before judging. And to come to conclusions on their own about how they feel about things.
Jump back in protective mom and the worry that they might become jaded with world issues at such a young age. But then again, there’s nothing wrong with a person who understands social and economical issues–and maybe it’ll give them the incentive to want to better the planet.
So I guess I’m back to where I started. My child is reading adult books. And he keeps getting closer to my height and my shoe size.
Something really must be done about them growing older. Otherwise they’re going to realize I’m not as smart as I tricked them into thinking I was.
(PS. All I can think of when I see that chair is how heavy it would be to move… Still cool though!)