One of my earliest remaining memories is reading a robins egg blue hardcover copy of Winnie-the-Pooh in a crib. In retrospect the previous sentence makes me sound like a prodigy reader, which certainly was not the case. I may be better than average, but there were no literary escapades during diapers. I slept in a crib until the end of 1st grade, due to the close-quartered living situation. I must’ve been between 5 and 7; there’s also a faint light of my mother getting ready for work next to the chair that always held all the clothes that couldn’t be bothered to be put away.
Third grade my parents encouraged Jules Verne. With sixth and seventh grade came Gulliver’s Travels and Animal Farm.
I hate to say in retrospect again almost as much as this upcoming retrospection and its consequences.
A great deal of classics were read, and for that thanks go to my parents. But because of any and all issues with them that I had at the time, I would read terrible books, gaudy tales of twenty-somethings being nannys and angsty young adult novels, because I knew it would frustrate them. I would roll my eyes at their suggestions and then go on to reread the most useless texts. And now I think back and all I see is wasted time. Not necessarily wasted, because who is to say what I would have grasped and retained at the time, but I’d wager to say that something would’ve been different.
And then there’s this, ‘wasted time’. I shudder to think at all the time I waste thinking about previous ‘wasted time’. I wonder how I’ll think of such waste in the years to come.