Report from the #homeschooling basement: (feels silly talking about our small steps with *everything* going on, but I want to share it. With so much destruction all around, it feels like the spirit of creation is the way forward). So. About our reading.

I’m not a reading teacher, but I am a writer. And if you don’t count Bono, worlds were my first love. My first story, which I wrote in 8th grade, was called “Felix and Fiona by the Lamp Post, Saturday Night” or something like that, so you see what I’m saying here.

And my youngest, as I’ve mentioned before, is the total opposite. He loves action, can do practically anything with his body, is fearless. The only book he’s ever finished on his own is Dog Man. This is him, he’s 10.

Nothing wrong with Dog Man! But I wanted him to see that there was more out there. I wanted to expose him to some great books with rich language most of all. He was not required to like them, or to love reading, but we were going to read them together.

What we’ve read so far this year: Gilgamesh, Sal and Gavin Break the Universe, A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Macbeth (Charles and Mary Lamb’s children’s version). We’ve also memorized two speeches from Shakespeare: Oberon’s speech to Puck, and Macbeth’s “Tomorrow” speech.

If asked, he says what we are reading is “kind of dumb and boring.” Which is fine (he has two surly teenage brothers, after all). BUT my husband and I are starting to notice that he talks differently. His vocabulary is getting so much more colorful.

He has been dropping random beautiful phrases into our dinner conversation that raised the whole family’s eyebrows. And he’s peppering his language with some real $10 words. He’s having fun with the verses, too, and recites then I’m funny voices.

I have no expectations that he will “fall in love” with reading. But it’s fun and rewarding to study the beautiful language in lit. I hope it sticks with him—so when he’s describing his latest biking jump, he’s got a deeper well to draw from than “sick, dude.”