I do not think that movie means what you think it means.

I don’t know what it is about this book: every other chapterbook Gracie has devoured, she has happily done so on her own or with the fam, on the couch or in her bed, on a train or in the rain… Er, oops. Got a little carried away there. [Happy Birthday, Mr. Seuss!] But since she’s started reading Harry Potter, she has demanded that I come and read with her. Sure, twist my arm,  kid.

It’s as lovely as it sounds, really, lying in my nice comfy bed with my dear daughter, reading one of my favorite books of all time. It’s a little discouraging, sure, that she hasn’t fallen as hard as quickly; but helloooo – she’s (almost) eight! And, okay, I will admit, sometimes it’s a bit of a hassle and my mommy’s heart emits a loud pang! when I have to leave Bee on her own in the living room (there’s no way she’s old enough to enjoy the Harrymagic just yet). I do try to give her something fun and rather illicit (TV on a weeknight, perhaps), but still. There are downsides to this adventure, after all, I guess.

If I was complaining before, I’m not now.

After Harry arrived at Hogwarts, Gracie’s interests piqued, to say the least. (She made me recite all the foods and then all the desserts they servedthree times.) She interrupted me a gazillion more times to find out where everyone had been sorted – usually right before we found out, of course. And then last night, there was the most awesome interruption of all. I had just finished reading the description of Snape - greasy black hair, hook nose, black eyes full of loathing – and described the searing pain Harry feels in his scar when Snape looks at him past Quirrel’s turban.

Gracie stopped me and asked me if Harry got the scar when a piece of circular metal zoomed past his head. “No, it’s not like in Twister when that happened at the drive-in. Remember that Harry got his scar as a baby when Voldemort tried to kill him?” She nodded, a little disappointed.

I explained more carefully how Harry’s scar hurt because the mean teacher had looked at him past the other teacher; the looking was made it hurt.

She perked up.  “Oh! I know!” she exclaimed, rather cheerily in fact. “It’s like the Marshmallow Man inGhostbusters when they shoot his head at the end! And he’s all ‘Bloooooouruuughhh!’ And pieces of him fall off! Only it wasn’t his head. It was his side, I think. Remember how it melted, Mom! THIS IS JUST LIKE THAT!”

I gaped open-mouthed at her, somehow not laughing (somedays I think not-laughing at my children is my superpower), amazed on one hand that she would think this was like blowing someone up with a proton pack jetstream, and on the other wondering if the power to summon all things Ghostbuster was genetic.

“Yes, this is almost like that.”

And one day she will watch the movie and wonder why the hell Snape isn’t worried about crossing the streams.

Tags: Ghostbusters, Harry Potter, humor, movies, reading