I had the opportunity to revisit Mem Fox’s classic Where is the Green Sheep? last month. As anyone who has come within a two-kilometre radius of me since June will already know, I have a new nephew. And he happens to be the world’s most adorable baby. What are the chances?

At six months old, Chester doesn’t yet appreciate the full glory of Green Sheep. He’s focused on colourful pictures and sampling the culinary delight of its cardboard cover. But in time he’ll come to admire the pacing, the detail, and the frenetic building of anticipation during our search for the aforementioned green sheep. (Spoiler alert, he’s behind the bush, fast asleep).

As another summer dawns, I’m proudly raising a glass to the book lovers. Those who are looking forward not just to the sun and the sea, but to curling up with a sci-fi thriller, a trashy romance or – as my Nan used to say – a good murder. For me, the two go hand-in-hand: books and the summertime. I mark the Christmas holidays of my childhood by what I was reading.

Santa tucked a copy of Robin Klein’s Hating Alison Ashley inside my stocking the year before I started grade four. The Christmas before high school began, Mum bought me Tomorrow, When the War Began by John Marsden – the perfect match for one’s misunderstood pre-teen years. And in the summer before graduation, Dad gave me Ian McEwan’s Atonement, with which I fell in love well before Keira Knightley’s impeccable green dress was even thought of.

Since becoming a parent myself, I’ve been determined that my son’s memories would also be marked by summertime stories. My son Rafi’s early reading years were sweet and wholesome, and I loved to read classics from my own childhood shelves. The Elephant and the Bad Baby went “rumpeta, rumpeta, rumpeta” down the road while Harry the Dirty Dog was washed clean, revealed to be a white dog with black spots once more.

It was pleasantly conspiratorial to stay up so late past Rafi’s bedtime that I got carried away and forgot I’m the “grown up” now.

JAMILA RIZVI

But this was nothing compared to the sheer thrill of reading together from books with actual chapters. We began with Roald Dahl, making our way through The Twits, then on to Fantastic Mr Fox and Matilda. We devoured Charlie and the Chocolate Factory together by torchlight on a late night in January. It was pleasantly conspiratorial to stay up so late past Rafi’s bedtime that I got carried away and forgot I’m the “grown up” now.

Andy Griffiths’ treehouse series still gets a run today because honestly, who wouldn’t want to revisit 78 flavours of ice cream, served by a robot called Edward Scooperhands, at least half a dozen times? Diary of a Wimpy Kid began as a joint-reading-project during a particularly severe summer storm, but Jeff Kinney was too good for my son to wait for me, and he raced ahead solo.

From there we’ve loved even more Australian classics, choosing to shun the beach on windier days for the comfort of a lounge chair overlooking the green and grey treetops of the Bellarine. Runt by Craig Silvey, Weirdo by Anh Do, The Silver Donkey by Sonya Harnett, and Finders Keepers by Emily Rodda. (The delights of Paul Jennings were reserved for reading with Dad).

More recently, Rafi and I have taken our summer holidays international. I jumped the gun (or waved the wand?) on Harry Potter and had to set it aside before trying again 12 months later. The second time was literal magic. Seven was the perfect age to be introduced to the boy wizard and Rafi jumped up and down on his bed like a jack-in-the-box when Harry caught the golden snitch during his first Quidditch match.