“If you can read this, thank a teacher. Ef yoo kan rid ths you prbli ar a teecha” 

— re:books

I just can't sugarcoat this one. I’m an author, and now a publisher. And, well…my kid hates to read.

I’d much rather floss my teeth with barbed wire than admit that my son hates to read and write — especially since his mother (me) started writing professionally at age 17, is an award-winning, bestselling author, and just launched an independent publishing house, meaning I pretty much read and write all day, and when I’m not reading or writing, I'm thinking about reading or writing.

Wait, let me start again. I momentarily forgot that we’re living in an uber politically correct age. My son doesn't “hate" reading. My son is a “reluctant reader.” Who hates reading?

But how can I own a publishing house, champion writers and authors, and recommend books each week knowing that I gave birth to a kid who would be the worst book publicist seems to be allergic to reading and writing?

Last year, he brought home a 5/10 grade on his spelling test. But not because he didn't know how to spell.

Trust me when I say I’m doing everything I can to make him a reader, including telling him oral stories, which he did enjoy…until he didn't. So please, no need to diagnose him or give suggestions.

BUT I figured it out. I will share how I got my kid who “is reluctant” to read and write to actually enjoy it. (It may include a bit of child labour…)

It was embarrassing enough to have to check with my eye doctor if the problem was as simply that he needed glasses — a doctor who, when asked for my name, followed with, “Are you the writer Rebecca Eckler?” 

To which I responded, “Yes. You know my son is adopted, right?” (What? Shuttup.)

“I loved your columns,” this obviously brilliant doctor said. 

“Did I mention Holt was adopted?” I blurted out again as I tilted my head toward my the kid, who gave me a look that said, “Bro, now is not the time to be weird. You're embarrassing me.”

Um, me embarrassing him? “I've made a career out of words, bro, so you’re embarrassing me,” I told him on the way home from the appointment. "You're making me look bad!”

Okay, no one expects pilots, for instance, to have kids who know how or even want to fly. But people automatically assume that if you’re a writer or have a publishing house, your kid(s) must also be born with an inherited love of reading and writing. 

I wish I could say this was a common misconception. But I can’t! I’ve scoured the interwebs and can't find any authors who, like me, have openly admitted that they have kids who hate reading.

My son needed me to sign off on his brag-worthy grade to show his teacher I was aware of the #ProudMommyMoment test, which obviously should be posted on social media burned. (I have become social media friends with some of his previous teachers. (Hi, Tara! I mean, Hi, Ms. Katz!)

In my son's defence, he did have a completely hilariously unreasonable brutally honest excuse reason for his grade, which I’ll share with you, in a sec! 

He’d tried to pass off his abysmal mark by acting as if he was handing me a field trip form or — flash-forward 10 years — a hit of a joint, like I was one of his besties. 

In reality, my son’s three best friends are iPad, Xbox, and Nintendo. My son even received letters from them while he was at overnight camp, which, re-reading them now — I obviously wrote them — sound kind of creepy: Even though I miss your gentle touch, I know you’re having a great time. Don't worry about us! We are just happy to stay put and not be forced to go everywhere you go. We miss you! From: iPad, Xbox and Nintendo.

I'll say this much about my kid's intelligence: He was smart enough to try pulling a fast one on me by catching me at the exact right time — I was standing in the kitchen with a non-functional brain trying to put a pod into the Keurig — before I had my IV drip cup of morning coffee; thus, the odds were ever in his favour. 

But alas, it did not work. Upon seeing his grade, I was quite angry — mostly because we fucking practiced and he had nailed them all! But I also laughed hysterically because of what my son did, or rather did not do, to get a 5/10 on a spelling test. (I’m already “busy” for the 2023 parent-teacher interview, at least with his English teacher.)

Once I had to stop myself from emailing one of his teachers when I found out my son lost a mark because he started a sentence with “because.” (They’d give me an automatic F if they read my stuff.)

But was I really going to waste my time argue with a teacher that, “Yes, you can actually start a sentence with the word ‘because,’ as long as the sentence includes a complete thought.” Because Holt had written. “Because there were so many bugs, I had to put on bug spray.”

Make no mistake: I think reading is the most important gift you can give a child (except for mine, who thinks iTunes gift cards are the most important gift you can give a child).

I noticed immediately he hadn’t answered the last five questions. “Bro!” I exclaimed, looking at his test, “What the hell happened?”

(Scroll back here later and read about how many famous authors have admitted they are indeed terrible at spelling. Maybe your — YOU’RE — going to relate.)

“Bro,” I said to my son. (Am I the only #boymom who calls their son this?) “Why didn't you answer the last five questions? Why did you just leave them blank? You're making your professional writer mom look bad. We knew how to spell ‘kangaroo’ and use it in a sentence! Same with ‘dinosaur.’ We practiced.” 

My kid looked at me as if I asked, “Why breathe when you're going to die anyway?”

“I didn't feel like finishing it," my kid answered. To which I responded, “You didn't feel like finishing it? YOU DIDN’T FEEL LIKE FINISHING IT?”

“No, I got bored,” my son casually responded, barely looking up from whatever game he was playing on his iPad.

“Look at me, please!” I bellowed. “You got bored? YOU GOT BORED? You can't just get BORED in the middle of a test at school. Well, you can, but you still have to finish it,” I said, then once again added how bad he’s making his author mom look.

I sort of took his failing grade personally. I was also wondering how, in life, we got to a point where a child thinks finishing a test is optional. 

Then…

Last week on a beautiful sunny day, while he had another long play date with his closest pals — iPad, Xbox and Nintendo — I told him he needed to do something else, preferably outdoors. “Or read a book. If you finish two books this week, I'll get anything on Amazon for less than $40.”

Want to know how my kid answered? “I’d rather not.”

Yes, that is exactly how my 10-year-old son responded to his author mom. Admittedly, I couldn't help but laugh. Oy, his chutzpah!

So, after I composed myself stopped laughing, I said to my reading-adverse kid, “I’d rather not have another lengthy negotiation to get you to read. But here we are! Go read for 10 minutes.”

“I’d rather not,” he repeated. Ah, summer, I thought. The time of year we realize teachers are grossly underpaid.

I know my kid can read and write but…he’d “rather not?” He doesn't “feel like it?” Or he gets “bored” in the middle of a spelling test that he studied for? 

How exactly does one respond to their kid who, politely, I might add, responds, “I’d rather not” when you tell them to go read? I was beginning to question my parenting.

But frankly, I was also questioning my child's child-ing, especially when he’d refuses to  “rather not” read. (Not gonna lie, I momentarily wondered how much easier life would have been with more dogs — or plants — and fewer kids.

“It's torture!” is how my son describes reading, followed by overly dramatic antics involving falling to the floor as though he’d just been shot, playing dead. (I guess it’s kinda like having a dog?)

Sometimes it feels like I’m turning into a skeleton trying to get my kid to read. “It's important to read," I'll explain. "It's like updating software into your brain.” (I can’t be the only parent thinking, “Just a couple of more weeks. You can do this. Then [fill in child's name] is the teacher's problem.”)

In preparation for this upcoming school year, I headed to Staples told my son that if anyone — especially his English teacher — happens to ask “What do your parents do?” he is to respond, “I’d rather not respond.” 

And unfortunately, a month at digital detox overnight camp didn't do the trick. Although he does say he loved my letters and sent letters to me. Though, trying to decipher what the hell he wrote was like trying to solve a jigsaw.

You’ll be glad to hear after all this ranting that I‘ve finally learned a couple of tricks to get the kid reading although it may include a bit of child labour. 

I’ve mentioned this one before: I lie next to him in bed, send a text to his iPad, and tell him he needs to text me back. Honestly, you may get a few poo emojis, but it works.

He caught on, though. This next one works much better.

The ride to My Guy's golf club is about 45 minutes from my place. And the drive to my cottage is about two and a half hours. Most weekends, we’re at one or the other.

Where am I getting at? While driving, I pretend that I need to work, but I can't — because (duh) I'm driving. So, I give Holt my phone, tell him my password, and explain how to open my emails. 

“Can you read Mommy’s work emails? I'm so far behind,” I'll say. “My boss is going to be so mad!” 

Now, this intrigued him instantly. It appears that he doesn't hate reading or writing. Rather, he needs to feel he's doing something important. Something adult-like. Like reading Mommy's emails while I shout, “Not important. Delete!” or “Read those first few lines one more time? Okay, flag it!”

I’ll go even further: I make him respond. I recite what he needs to write back while I gush at how lucky I am to have a kid smart enough to be my personal assistant. It totally works — reading my emails makes him not only feel important but that he’s saving Mommy's ass.

So, my kid doesn't hate reading. He just loves helping Mommy with her work while she’s busy, or because of her terrible eyesight.

(If you get short emails back from me, it’s not because I’m being rude. It’s because my 10-year-old is now my personal assistant.

It may be classified as child labour, but it’s for his own good.

Why my kid prefers to read press releases remains a mystery. But if you figure out what they like to read, you may be able to turn a reluctant reader into one that doesn’t mind it.

So now, at least I can say that I’m an author, and my kid enjoys reading. 

But as soon as they force him to play the recorder (perhaps one of the few positives that came out of education during the pandemic were kids NOT having to play the fucking recorder) I’m out. 

Because, if there is music in hell, I assure you, it is played on a recorder.

Until next time, flip your hair and flip the page! (And make your kid read press releases, like this one!