Mama Writer

The Harry Potter Effect: My Boy is Growing Up

I took the above picture when Noah was mad at me. To get his revenge he decided he would design his mama’s nemesis, President Trump, a cool, new white house.

My boy has always been… strong-willed.  

He was back-talking me, and my parenting demands, since before he could use actual words.



Trying to get him to eat vegetables?

He’ll sit at the table, as long as I’ll let him, without touching a single bite. See you tomorrow, peas!

The baby book I read during his toddler years said that no kid who screamed in a tantrum for more than 2 hours was actually having a tantrum. It said there was probably something really wrong, and that parents should proceed to the emergency room.

But, as far as I know, the emergency room doesn’t treat “turned-off-Thomas-the-Train-Halfway-Through-an-Episode” syndrome.  

Thank goodness that I had him first. I thought he was an average kid. As my firstborn, he was my definition of normal.

I often tell people that, if I’d had my easygoing daughter first, I probably would have needlessly put Noah into therapy.  He would have been labeled my “problem child,” just because I didn’t know a child with a will of iron was an option.

Don’t get me wrong. He’s sunny, smiling, laughing, helpful, eager, and playful-

Until you tell him to do something that he doesn’t want to do.

Pretty sure this kid will chase and demand his own definition of success and happiness wherever he goes, so I’m only complaining for the sake of comedy, here- and for a little setup.

I’ve been reading him Harry Potter, every night I could, for a week.

The first book is, of course, wonderful, but I sometimes forget how much backstory and description it takes to get to the more magical parts of the story.

Having a six-year-old graphic novel enthusiasts beside me while I read it really emphasized that this book is for kids of an older, more patient age, or maybe those more ready to read to themselves entirely, skipping and skimming when they choose.

I’m his mom, so I can tell he’s not that into the book. When he’s enthusiastic, you know it. You can’t miss it.

He’s not yet enthusiastic. We’ll get to the really cool parts soon, so I have hope he’ll get into it.

But, it occurred to me last night, while I was reading one of my own favorite parts and pretty much doubling the length of our usual story time with this book that is not my son’s favorite-

He hasn’t complained.

At all.

I can tell it’s not his style. I know there are other things he would prefer to read. I’ve been reading some really long sections, completely devoid of the action scenes and intense pictures he usually craves.

But, if he’s thought of these things, he’s refused to voice them. He’s keeping quiet, and promptly, without a hint of hesitation, snuggling beside me for his wordy, picture-free, not-yet-his-style, story time.

He jumps into bed and pulls the covers over both of us, holding his flashlight up on the page to help me read, frequently switching hands, as I read so long, they get tired.

I think that shows me the love in our relationship so much more than words can.

My son. My Noah.

The will of iron in a six-year-old body is doing something for me, even though it’s not what he wants to do.

There are so many sides to this boy. I haven’t even begun to figure him out, and now he’s started growing up on me, changing all the rules that I thought I’d figured out.

I thought I couldn’t love him more back when he back-babbled, waving his indignant, pudgy arms at me.

Turns out we were just warming up.