I have been doing a little academic research into children’s literature and horror recently, and one of the things I’ve seen mentioned multiple times is that children’s literature is different that any other kind, because it’s really written with adults in mind. Let me explain.

It’s mostly adults who write children’s books. Adults decide what books are appropriate for publication for children, edit them, and market them. Adults are the ones who usually buy them. And adults decide how and where they should be made available. Many children’s books are written well beyond the capacity of  the child to read the book independently… so most children’s books, for many years, are also read by, or with adults, to children.

As adults, we have too much of a past to experience a children’s book in the same way a child does, and our roles in the present also change the way we look at them. And that affects the reading experience children have when we read aloud with them.

My mom bought a book containing a variety of stories meant for reading aloud with a child. It’s a strange collection, really, and includes The Shrinking of Treehorn by Florence Parry Heide and The Magic Finger by Roald Dahl. My five year old daughter pulled this book out, opened it to the middle and said “I want this one.” She had chosen The Tenth Good Thing About Barney, a picture book by Judith Viorst about a boy grieving for his cat, who has just died. It’s often recommended for use with children when talking about death. Not really a feel good bedtime story. Even though I’ve never had a cat, I tear up at the end. I said, “This is a very sad story. Are you sure you want me to read it?” She did. And so I read it to her. And for her it wasn’t sad. She made a connection between Barney, the cat in the story, and Picky-picky, Ramona Quimby’s cat (in Beverly Cleary’s Ramona books), who dies in the movie, but she wasn’t sad. And the next night at bedtime she wanted it again. And so did her brother. I warned him that it could be sad, but he still wanted to hear it, so I read it again. And it wasn’t sad for him. As an adult who knows how this book is supposed to be used, I didn’t really feel the need for my kids to hear the story. As a mom, I was afraid it would make them sad, and maybe scared, so that it would be hard to go to sleep. And I have heard a few questions about cats and about death in the last day or so, but nothing that seems to make them sad, or scared, or worried. Keeping it away from them because of my own worries, fears, and preconceptions seems, in this case, like it would have been kind of selfish. They don’t appear to have been damaged by the experience, and maybe it has made their lives richer. I think that goes for a lot of books that people worry about putting in the hands of children. I am glad that I didn’t say more than that this was a sad story. Even that gives them a frame that is not their own for understanding what the story means for them.

Reading aloud to children, and with children, is a joy, a pleasure, and sometimes a frustration. And it’s also a responsibility, not just as adults reading for thirty minutes at night with them so they’ll grow up to be independent readers with a love of stories and books (or at least children who can pass the I-READ exam). It is a responsibility, because by what we choose to share and how we feel about children’s books, as adults, as professionals, and as former children, we have the ability to change the way our children see and feel about a book that so very many adults wanted to put into their hands. Once it’s in their hands, though, children can change the book for us, as well.  Reading aloud  with a child alters the world. That’s something to keep in mind.