Updated: December 20, 2015
Originally Published: July 13, 2015
When the first Harry Potter book was released, my family was living in Maine. I was still adjusting to motherhood, while my husband often traveled for work. We had moved from the bustling life of Los Angeles, where I donned professional attire and commuted to an office daily, to a quiet town of 5,000, surrounded by three acres and a serene pond. Embracing this change was essential, yet I frequently found myself struggling to fill our days meaningfully. I tried to emulate other mothers, taking my children to the beach, pool, and park in our bright red wagon. We built forts, baked cookies, donned fairy wings, and played with Play-Doh. However, the moments I felt most assured in my parenting were those evenings when my children snuggled into bed with me while I read aloud to them.
A friend introduced me to Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, and that book marked the beginning of our shared adventures in reading. Unlike Winnie-the-Pooh or The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, this story was new to me as well, and I was just as curious about its conclusion as my children. J.K. Rowling was still unfolding the tale.
My kids belong to the generation whose childhoods unfolded alongside each new release in the Harry Potter series. They were the ones who dressed up as Harry Potter for Halloween and eagerly awaited the midnight release of the books at Barnes & Noble. Our bond with “the boy who lived” has spanned years, transitioning from reading the books to watching the films and listening to Jim Dale’s captivating narration on CD. In fact, Dale’s voice echoed throughout our home, as my daughter, Lily, carried her CD player from room to room, which might explain why my husband has never shared our enthusiasm for the series.
When my husband unexpectedly left for a business trip, an idea sparked between us. All summer, we had been discussing activities to do before Lily’s departure. “Before Lily leaves, let’s try that Ethiopian restaurant.” “Before Lily leaves, we should explore Sugar Loaf Mountain again.” Ultimately, we completed none of these plans. However, when my son, Ethan, suggested, “Before Lily leaves, we should binge-watch all the Harry Potter movies,” it felt imperative that we follow through.
Carving out time to watch eight films, totaling around 20 hours, was no easy task. Lily was busy with farewell parties, and Ethan, a rising sophomore, had a summer job and a new girlfriend. Yet, as the last blooms of the season faded and the warm air settled in, both children returned home to gather with me in the cool comfort of our basement, illuminated by the glow of our television.
It took us five nights to complete the marathon. During our screenings, we revisited old conversations and sparked new ones, enriched by their evolving perspectives. We delved into themes of good versus evil, prejudice, bullying, and the complications of friendship and first love. We cheered against Umbridge’s tyranny and mourned the losses of beloved characters like Dobby and Sirius. Watching Harry and his friends grow alongside my children reminded me of their own friendships and experiences, as well as the enduring power of maternal love—what Rowling refers to as “old magic.”
A friend who introduced me to the series once expressed her concern about its portrayal of motherhood, questioning whether a mother’s love could truly be sufficient. At that time, with our children still young, the uncertainties of parenting loomed large. As I sat with my children in the basement over those five nights, I experienced a blend of sadness and relief. The mother I had envisioned myself becoming had transformed into the mother I was.
Earlier in the year, I had been struck by a wave of emotion while driving home from a yoga class, unleashing a torrent of sobs that felt both cathartic and overwhelming. It was as if the physical release of yoga had unearthed years of motherhood. I became acutely aware of the mother I had been, the one I was, and the one I would become as my children transitioned into adulthood. “Hurry home!” I felt my maternal selves whispering, reminding me that this moment with my children was fleeting.
My tears were not about lamenting the end of my daughter’s childhood. I would never wish to return to her younger self; I cherish who she has become. Instead, my emotions stemmed from the realization that the worries and hopes I had harbored for so long were finally behind me. Our family narrative has been fulfilling and successful, filling me with immense gratitude. Yet, I also felt the bittersweet ache of knowing that the story we had once eagerly anticipated was now behind us, akin to the exhilarating experience of reading the Harry Potter series for the first time, unaware of what lay ahead.
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In summary, the journey through motherhood is filled with magical moments and inevitable changes, often mirrored in the stories we share with our children. As we navigate through the challenges and joys, it is essential to embrace every fleeting moment, cherishing the unique bond we share with our children.
Keyphrase: Harry Potter and Parenting
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