One unremarkable afternoon, I returned home from the bookstore with a beautifully wrapped hardcover copy of Misty of Chincoteague, the beloved tale by Marguerite Henry about two farm children and their fascination with a wild pony. I lovingly wrote an inscription for my daughter, just as my mother had done for me years ago. We snuggled into bed to read, but just a few pages in, she interrupted with a curious question about whether people ever used noodles to floss their teeth. I gently urged her to hold her thoughts, as the story was about to introduce Misty’s mother, Phantom. Then, in a moment of horror, I noticed she had just smeared one of her boogers on the back of the book!
Each night, the enchantment of Misty seemed to bounce off her, unless we counted how quickly she fell asleep, thanks to its unintentional lullaby effect. I soon realized my hopes of her developing a passion for plastic horses or galloping around the yard on a pretend Misty were unrealistic. The book, I had to admit, was rather dull, and my daughter showed no signs of wanting to explain how Misty had mysteriously vanished to the bottom of her laundry basket while we were only two-thirds of the way through.
My husband also faced a similar disheartening experience with the original Muppets movie. My daughter found them uninteresting, which left us questioning if her taste was somehow lacking. Small disappointments piled up—how could a child not want to devour box candy Nerds? And the larger letdowns, like when she showed no interest in whether E.T. would make it home.
In moments of frustration, it was easy to blame her friends or the amount of Nick Jr. she watched. I went through stages of denial, thinking perhaps she just wasn’t ready for Misty at five, but would appreciate it more at six. I even tried bargaining—ice cream for her attention and an open mind. Ultimately, I reached a point of acceptance that maybe I, as a parent, was being a little needy. But it’s inherently frightening to share something you love with someone you adore. Their rejection can feel like a personal slight or betrayal, which is downright unfair yet achingly human.
However, I persisted. There’s only one TV in our house, and sometimes, I couldn’t bear to hear another episode of SpongeBob. Recently, I decided to bring home the 1988 classic Big from the video store, determined not to oversell it. I kept my laughter in check when my daughter remained stoic during the scene where Tom Hanks and his friend hilariously squirt silly string through their nostrils.
As we lounged on our blanket in the living room, watching this delightful film about the joys and challenges of growing up, I reflected on my hopes for introducing my childhood favorites to her. I wanted her to relish these precious years, to resist the urge to rush through them, and to approach new stories with a sense of wonder. I believe that when you’re younger, everything is embraced with a more uncomplicated affection.
When the film concluded, my daughter rolled over and said, “That was the best movie ever!” I played it cool, replying, “Really? I love it too.” It was a moment of pure joy, reminding me of the magic of childhood and the beauty of sharing experiences.
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Summary:
Watching movies from our childhood with our children can be a mixed bag of emotions, as they may not always share our enthusiasm. However, the joy of connection and the hope that they will embrace the magic of stories is worth the effort. Whether it’s a classic film like Big or discussions around family planning, each moment is a step in this beautiful journey of parenthood.