Another week, another article reporting that parents aren’t reading enough to their kids, particularly boys. It’s a familiar story – I feel like I’ve been reading versions of it since before my own children were born. The twist this time is the spotlight on Gen Z, the new generation of parents who are allegedly prioritising screens over books.
Of course, this is a generalisation – there will be plenty of young parents who love reading to their kids, and 40-somethings who find it a chore. But it’s sad to think that fewer families, whatever their age, are enjoying this precious time together.
The educational, social and emotional benefits of reading to children have been widely documented, and you can read any number of articles on the subject by people far more qualified than me. This blog isn’t one of those: it’s just me, as a parent, reflecting on my own experience of reading to my kids and the pleasure it’s brought us over the years.
Never too early to start
Maybe it’s because I’m Gen X (just), but it never crossed my mind NOT to read to my children. More likely, it’s because of my own upbringing. I had a particularly analogue 80s childhood – living abroad meant even kids’ TV was limited, and we would wait in eager anticipation for a kindly UK relative to post over a VHS tape stuffed with Rainbow and Raggy Dolls. On the other hand, my grammar-school Boomer parents (who still can’t pass a second-hand book stall empty handed) made sure I was never short of something to read.
As I approached parenthood myself, reading stories was one of the activities I was most looking forward to. So much so, that I started before my first child was even born. (Yes, really.) Having read that hearing familiar stories in utero promotes bonding and learning, I purchased a copy of Goodnight Moon and, feeling pretty silly, would read it aloud while beached on the sofa in my final months of pregnancy.
Whether my daughter found this enjoyable or just a bit baffling, we’ll never know. But “Moon book” became a non-negotiable part of our bedtime routine for years to come.
Finding the joy in reading
Of course, it’s not all rainbows and unicorns. A key reason Gen Z parents give for not reading to their kids is that they don’t find it fun themselves. It can feel like hard work, particularly when your child doesn’t seem engaged or insists on the same book over and over.
I can relate – if I ever see Peppa’s Golden Boots again, it will be too soon. “Again! Again!” my toddler would demand as soon as we reached the end – and woe betide us if we ever tried to edit it for our own sanity.
In the main, though, books have always been our happy place. Many a rainy, overtired afternoon has been rescued by snuggling up with a familiar story. As babies, they’d be soothed by the gentle illustrations of Guess How Much I Love You, tickled by the holes in Peepo, and captivated by the scrunch and squish of That’s Not My… board books. As toddlers, they’d giggle at a silly sound or picture, and join in with their favourite parts of the story (“Oh help… Oh no… It’s a…. GRUFFALO!”).

The next chapter
My kids are now 10 and 8, and perfectly capable of reading to themselves. But we still read to them every night – and plan to keep doing so for as long as they’ll let us. As well as being a cosy way to wind down together at the end of the day, it encourages them to explore slightly more challenging content they might not tackle on their own.
For my youngest, that currently means Harry Potter (those books could use some serious editing), while with her sister, we’re working our way through the Murder Most Unladylike series. These thirties-set murder mysteries are a rather fabulous sort of Agatha Christie/Malory Towers mash-up, which are delighting my daughter with unfamiliar vocabulary such as “mumbo-jumbo” and “popinjay”.
Whatever we’re reading, she’ll often pause to admire a word or ask its meaning, sometimes even jumping up to make a note of it – “I must use that in a story!” Her career ambition is to be an author, and I’d like to think that’s at least partly inspired by all the stories we’ve shared together over the years.
Now our shelves are groaning with the likes of Pamela Butchart, Jacqueline Wilson and (latest obsession) the Lottie Brooks series, I need to donate some old picture books to make room. There are plenty I’ll happily forget. But some – Goodnight Moon, The Tiger who Came to Tea, Julia Donaldson’s The Paper Dolls, to name a few – are part of the family, and they’re here to stay.





