Love,

Your Mom

When I was forced to put up with my son’s sense of humor, which included turning every word he read onto his family members, the search was on. Could I, as a supportive and patient parent I attempt to be, find a right book for my son? A book that encourages my son to tell a joke that won’t have his mouth washed out with soap? I had to admit I wasn’t confident.

Now, I have a book Jake the Fake Keeps It Real at hand. In fact, Jake is not a perfect kid. The first book in the series, Jake the Fake Keeps It Real, opens with Jake’s explaining how he cheated on the admission of an arts and music academy for gifted kids.

So when Jake realizes that to fit in at art school, he has to come up with some strange ideas, I almost died laughing. Not only did I think that was funny, so did my son. As a matter of fact, Jake the Fake Keeps It Real turned out to be a great distraction (使人分心的事物) from my son’s being disrespectfully funny. And I would rather my son imitate Jake by chewing (咀嚼) the same piece of gum for six hours and then writing a play about it.

I succeeded in one thing: Finding a fittingly funny role model for my son.

The end of the book, chapter 13, where Jake, no-talented, has to perform in the school talent show (obviously if you blow it, you have to quit school and work on a fishing boat). Jake sits down at the piano and knows he can’t do it, so he stands up from the piano.

Here’s where the book really wins my son’s heart for life, because maybe one day, my son might say, as Jake says after his mother praises his talent show appearance and hugs him tightly, “She’s pretty cool sometimes, my mom.”

One summer night in a seaside cottage, a boy felt himself lifted from bed. Then, with the swiftness of a dream, he was held in his father’s arms out onto the nearby beach. Overhead the sky blazed with stars. “Watch!” Incredibly, as his father spoke, one of the stars moved. In a line of golden fire it flashed across the astonished heavens. And before the wonder of this could fade, another star leaped from its place, then another, plunging towards the restless sea.

“What’s this?” the child whispered.

“Shooting stars. They come every year on a certain August night. I thought you’d like to see the show.”

That was all: just an unexpected glimpse of something mysterious and beautiful. But, back in bed, the child stared for a long time into the dark, knowing that all around the quiet house, the night was full of the silent music of the falling stars.

Decades have passed, but I remember that night still, because I was the fortunate boy whose father believed that a new experience was more important for a small boy than an unbroken night’s sleep. No doubt I had all the usual childhood entertainment, but those are forgotten now. What I remember is the night of the shooting stars, and the day we rode in a caboose (列车末尾的职工车厢), the telegraph we made that really worked, and the “trophy table” in the dining room where we children were encouraged to exhibit things we had found — anything unusual or beautiful — snake skins, seashells, flowers, arrowheads... I remember the thought-provoking (引人深思的) books left by my bedside that pushed back my horizons and sometimes actually changed my life.

My father had, to a marvellous degree, the gift of opening doors for his children, of leading them into areas of splendid newness. This subtle art of adding dimensions to a child’s world doesn’t necessarily require a great deal of time. It simply involves doing things more often with our children instead of for them or to them.