Reading

We read a lot. The family rule is no television during the week; thus, mother, father and children read. A lot. Most of the time, in fact. When I first found out I was pregnant on Elizabeth, I decided I would read Shakespeare to her--unlike mothers who knit or crochet for their babies, I read every play of Shakespeare's, aloud. Emily didn't get Shakespeare but, by the time I was pregnant on her, I knew variety was the spice of life; little Elizabeth and conceived Emily got every fairy tale I could find, all of Perrault's Fairy Tales and all of the Grimm Brothers. Emma's pregnancy was the poetry period and the girls encountered every classical poem in my collection; none of us could get into much of the modern stuff except for a cat poem set in Casa Loma and Ted Hughes. The children did go to school for a number of years and the school advocated reading a loud to one's children for a minimum of twenty minutes a night; my children still haven't gone to bed without someone reading a loud to them. With Elizabeth now 14, I wonder if I should stop. But we all seem to enjoy it, even my husband who is not always home to participate in the experience.

One Christmas, we spent the whole of Boxing Day reading one of the Harry Potter novels a loud. Every one took a turn reading for awhile and we finished the book in a day and a bit. When we read at night, we take turns making a selection; long or short, it doesn't matter, the novel or poem must be finished before the next person's choice is begun. Right now, we are reading Richardson's "Pamela." And, we are halfway through the book and it has become boring. Really boring. We have read long books before; all of the Brontes have been read, all of Jane Austen, all of J.K. Rowling and our most favourite book was Dumas' "Les Miserables." However, it is really killing us to read Richardson; I have mentioned the possibility of reading Fielding's "Shamela" afterwards, but we are really beginning to think 18th century novels may not be for us; they certainly are not for me. Elizabeth and Emily are going to try and read "Pamela" individually; Emma thinks it is a lost cause. Her turn is next and she wants an Alex Cross novel.

High brow authors seem so much more impressive than James Patterson, but we read without discrimination. I don't mind adding the fact the girls read Archie Comics and own every Calvin and Hobbes there is; we have well over 50 cookbooks and they have been read, sometimes while eating food drawn from those recipes. Elizabeth likes reading about vegetables and farming techniques; Emily is into plays, theatre productions and costumes; and Emma, well, Emma is reading Anthony Horowitz and James Patterson and other stuff I want to say is like brain candy and addictive but hardly intellectually stimulating. But the reality is we read without censorship and I must bite my tongue.