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Harry Potter makes me sad when I think about it too much
I have small nieces. Before they were born I was the youngest in the family and consequently had never really been around babies and small children for any length of time. So I only had the vaguest idea of developmental milestones. To me then, a one-year-old might as well have been a newborn.
Then I was around my nieces. I watched them grow and develop and learn. I watched the younger one start walking at 10 months. At fourteen months she could manage a rough approximation of my name, along with Mama & Dada. She recognised me as a source of positive feedback. She smiled when I smiled. She climbed on me. She cuddled.
Then I think about the story of Harry Potter. Who was one-year-old when his parents were murdered in front of him and when he was dropped off on the doorstep of people who hated the existence of people like him.
Could he already walk? Did he have words? How long did he ask for mama & dada until he stopped trying? Days? Weeks? Months?
The more you think about them, the more nightmarish the Dursleys become.
Then I was around my nieces. I watched them grow and develop and learn. I watched the younger one start walking at 10 months. At fourteen months she could manage a rough approximation of my name, along with Mama & Dada. She recognised me as a source of positive feedback. She smiled when I smiled. She climbed on me. She cuddled.
Then I think about the story of Harry Potter. Who was one-year-old when his parents were murdered in front of him and when he was dropped off on the doorstep of people who hated the existence of people like him.
Could he already walk? Did he have words? How long did he ask for mama & dada until he stopped trying? Days? Weeks? Months?
The more you think about them, the more nightmarish the Dursleys become.