Poor Mr. Richardson is probably dead by now, considering how ancient he was as my high school world history teacher an eon ago. Not to mention that I alone probably stole a decade of his life.

I was a good student…until I hit high school. I had gone to Christian school or been home schooled up until that point, but neither of those options were feasible anymore, so it was public school for me. I didn’t mind at the time. I had delusions of Saved by the Bell being a plausible scenario for real-life high school, and couldn’t wait to meet my crew.

But high school didn’t turn out like Saved by the Bell.  I quickly realized that it was a giant babysitting organization, and with the exception of my super-hot Spanish teacher, Mr. Atkisson, and my super-eccentric physics teacher, Mr. Veri, almost all my teachers simply showed up for their paltry paychecks, bitter that after 15 or 20 years in education, they were still driving a beat up Civic and hadn’t inspired their students to stand on their desks even once, quoting, “Oh Captain, my Captain…”  Their “sacrifices” as teachers just hadn’t paid off.

The forerunner of all old and bitter teachers was Mr. Richardson.  Mr. Richardson managed to take a most fascinating subject involving tales of Greek gods, goddesses and heroes, medieval kings and legends, brutal wars, extraordinary inventions, bizarre religious practices and the tales of the great explorers, and make it painfully boring.  He never once told a story, read an excerpt from an explorer’s journal or engaged us in any kind of dialogue.  Instead, he passed out copies of hand-written sentences with blanks in them.  Next to the blanks was a page number from our history book.  All we had to do was sit at our desks, turn to that page, find the sentence he’d hand-written on our papers, and fill in the blank.  Every. single. day.  Not to mention that Mr. Richardson himself was cold, unsmiling and literally refused to learn our names.

But he learned mine.  I made sure of it.  There was no way I was going to attend that class everyday, fill in blanks on a paper in five minutes and just sit quietly at my desk for the remaining 45 minutes.  So in that vacuum of learning, I became class clown.  At first, I tried to be nice about it.  While Mr. R. sat at his desk reading the newspaper and the other kids were taking naps, I’d ask Mr. R. a question from the paper’s headlines, “So, Mr. Richardson, how did the Israeli-Palestinian peace talks go? Did Arafat get his bike back?”  Mr. Richardson grunted.  On sunny days, I’d pester Mr. Richardson to at least let us take our world history naps outside.  As the year wore on and Mr. Richardson was determined to be mentally absent from class, I figured he didn’t care if we were present for class, so I would hide his roll book in obscure places around the classroom.  One day, I even dared to lock the door behind me before he arrived, and no one dared to unlock it.  By the end of the semester, I’d simply turn in my worksheet and leave class, without a word from Mr. Richardson.

That was my education in World History.  As well as the next semester, when Mr. Richardson “taught” geography, using the same fill in the blanks method.  I got an “A” in both classes though.

So it’s no wonder how I thought that Columbus landed on Plymouth Rock (rather than San Salvador) in 1492 (all I knew was that he’d discovered America, and that I learned in second grade).  Or why I thought that the crash of 1929 had something to do with a potato famine in Ireland.  History was just one big, befuddled mess to me.  I’d heard lots of interesting historic tales from various sources, but I’d never had any kind of context to put those stories in, no timeline and ultimately, no real accuracy whatsoever.

But I do love a good story.  And true history has the best stories.  So when my mother-in-law gave me a book about the classical method of education several years ago (since I was tinkering with the idea of homeschooling at the time) it was like having a big, clearly defined map laid out in front of me, a wanderer who’d been blindfolded and dropped into the wilderness without a compass.

The concept?  Start at the very beginning.  A certain musical nun thought that a very good place to start, and I agree.  Why on earth would I learn state history, then U.S. history, then European history with maybe some Asian and African history thrown in there?  Starting toward the end of a story, and bouncing all around the chapters makes for a very confusing plot.  A story begins at the beginning, and so does history.  And history is broken up into four parts: Ancient (10,000 BC – 500 AD), Medieval (500 – 1400), Renaissance to pre-Modern (1400 – 1850), and Modern to Post-Modern (1850 – Present).

Not only is chronology part of the classical method of learning, but also the reading of “living books”, meaning no reading text books or history books!  Instead, one reads the literature written from that time.  No reading about Aristotle, just read Aristotle, his own writings.  Don’t read about the battle of Troy, read the Iliad.  The reading of living books almost feels like one is being told the story by a real-life observer, or as if one is engaged in a dialogue that spans across time, paying no heed to death, because the words of the dead live on.  It’s a far cry from a textbook and a fill in the blank worksheet.

So I’ve compiled a list of over 400 “great” works of literature throughout history.  I know there’s plenty more, but if I manage to read a book a week, it will take me about eight years to finish as it is.  I figure by then, I’ll have a firm enough foundation in history that I can pick up another random classic and not get all fuzzy headed about when and where it’s contents took place.

So Mr. Richardson, if you’re still alive, I want you to know that you’ve committed a crime against your students.  As punishment, you will be sentenced to fill in worksheets handwritten by my four year old on any topic that she chooses.  You will not be given any page numbers.  And I still have your car keys.

This is what you should have had us reading: Elle’s Anthology of Ancient Literature

I never wanted to be one of “those moms” – the ones that tell you the consistency of their baby’s poo, who recount for you the arrival of their vibrant placenta, and when you ever so graciously try to round that conversation out with talk of the latest vote in the senate or even the weather, for heaven’s sake, somehow it reminds them of how their Snookie is already arranging his blocks “just so”, and you realize: you’re just gonna have to stick to baby talk.

Not me.  Not only was I not going to share all the little goings on of my babies with every Sandra and Sally, but I wasn’t even gonna talk baby-talk to my babies!  No!  My toddler was going to hear my thoughts on immigration, the war, and the legalization of marijuana (“Now Taytem, individuals should not be told by the government how to treat their own bodies, BUT IF I EVER CATCH YOU NEAR A BONG….!!!”).  That’s how it was gonna be in my house.  My head was not going to be a DVR set to “Channel Baby”.  No, it was going to be a living, working brain.

So my dear friend heard me whining one day about how I’d just been completely wrapped up in family life and hadn’t gone and done something fun on my own in quite some time.  It just so happened she was attending a party later in the week with some very exclusive underground cool folks, and her husband preferred to hang with the kids, so I was invited.

Yay!  Grown-ups sans children!  Party clothes minus spit-up!  Cocktails made for me instead of me making a bedtime bottle!  I was Cinderella all grown up.  My handsome prince was doing his princely duty and guarding our children, while I, sporting sexy stretch marks instead of glass slippers, rode shotgun in a Volvo instead of in the back of a shiny white pumpkin.

I was exhilarated when the first introduction included a brief allusion to the political dissection of the city (the west side was conservative, while the east side leaned heavily liberal), but we were interrupted long before our philosophizing could save the world.  But I wasn’t daunted by this interruption.  The night was young.

But I wasn’t anymore.  I’m a mom.  And wouldn’t ya know it:  pretty soon I was huddled up with some other moms, all of us talking about our adventures in motherhood, our disciplinary preferences, and I was even so bold as to whip out the fact that I homeschool.  And it was fun.  Of course, no one mentioned “placenta” over the hors de oeuvres tray either, so that was a bonus.

My friend and I maxed out by 11 p.m. and went home to our still awake princes.  I woke up the next day and made pancakes for my family, and over breakfast, expounded upon original sin and free-will to my four-year-old.

So the people at the party may have thought I was “one of those moms”, but I’m pretty confident that my four-year-old could easily articulate that I’m not.  I’m just her mom, and no matter how many times I read If You Give A Mouse A Cookie, my brain is still my own, and tonight, party or no party, it will be feasting on the conquests of Constantine and the medieval world.  After all, even a mom’s gotta have a life.  Sheesh.

* Yes.  I know I’m a nerd.  And I’d love to know if you’re a nerd too, especially if you’re a nerd-mom.

I’m supposed to be reading Sophocles, whoever that is, this week.  Instead, I’m spending my days printing and cutting out home-schooling materials, painting rooms, cleaning up puppy pee (fortunately, off of carpet we are soon replacing) and searching for my cooking utensils in boxes while we wait for our kitchen cabinet order to be shipped.  I don’t have much time for Sophocles, whoever that is.

I haven’t had the energy for any of the challenging reading from my “Classics List” lately.  At the end of the day, I’d rather Hulu-it-up on my laptop and watch some HGTV or Modern Family.  I reassure myself that my brain muscles are not atrophying with a little something I read from a book in the bookstore a while back (though, I do not remember what the book was called or who the author was).  I do remember that the author had studied the brain activity of moms and discovered that motherhood makes one more intelligent than they would otherwise be.  All that multi-tasking of simultaneously cooking with one hand while cleaning with the other, stopping your four-year-old from dumping sand on her sister’s head while telling the contractor how you want your tile patterned, and scrubbing a raspberry stain out of a shirt while using your foot to prevent the new puppy from leaping all over the baby as you answer the phone with your chin, apparently wires one’s brain in a totally unique and superior way.

So, sorry Sophocles (who exactly are you again?) my brain is occupied elsewhere and is getting smarter without you.  Now, can someone please tell me where I put my keys without pointing out the fact that I left the house in my pajama slippers?  (again).

Geez, I’d hate to see my IQ without motherhood catapulting me to such genius heights.

I thought Herodotus’ Histories just might beat me.  I did not care about his ridiculously detailed observations about the various waterways off the Nile or the ancient burial rites of Ethiopian tribes.  But Herodotus was on my list, my list of so-called Great Books, and I was not going to let it beat me.  How could I already quit on book #9 when I have about 431 to go?  I knew they weren’t all going to be enthralling stories or philosophically stimulating, but I couldn’t let myself start getting burned out already.

And yet, Herodotus’ giant sleeping pill sat on my nightstand for eight months!  I read other books during that time, but none from my List.  No!  Not until I’d finished Herodotus.  I tried various strategies for getting through it: reading for 30 minutes a day, reading ____ number of pages a day, just deciding to read it through by sheer will-power…but nothing kept me going.  Until one little trick…

It’s the simplest little thing, but it got me through Herodotus by the end of the first week (which turned out to be quite a page turner at the end, go figure!), but I’ve been able to continue reading a book a week for the last five weeks, something almost unheard of for moms of two kids under age four.

So…here it is…are you ready?  Are you ready to get back to grown-up literature?  Are you ready to supplement Goodnight Moon with The Time Traveler’s Wife, or Keeping Your Child From Peeing in the Display Toilets at Home Depot for Dummies (surely there’s a book out there that can help me with that!)?  Are you ready to…okay, okay!  Here it is, don’t get your panties in a wad!

Bookmarks! Or the slim Post-Its, or torn up strips of paper, you get the idea…but 7 of them, one for each day.  Divide your book into seven equal parts (just eye it, or find the closest chapter, you don’t have to count exact pages) and mark the spots with the Post-Its.  There’s something psychological to it that just works for me, and it just might for you too.  I like having a finite amount to read for the day, rather than approaching the book with no concept of how much to read.  If it’s a dull book, I’ll only get through a few pages.  If it’s an exciting book, I’ll read way too late into the night and am a zombie the next morning.  And try getting through a chapter a day of Herodotus!  They’re 200 pages long!  But the little bookmarks are like mileage signs on the highway: there’s just comfort in knowing that the next Taco Bell is now only 34 miles away rather than 48.  And at the end of each day, as the next little bookmark gets pulled out of the book, there’s a sense of accomplishment to turn the lights out on.

So now I try these several little things that keep my reading on track:

1. Start a new book every Sunday
2. Use my 7 Post-Its/bookmarks
3. Designate a time to read every day
4. Take my book with me everywhere to get in little bits here and there
5. Have my next books ready before I finish my last one

Here’s to moms everywhere who make time to read!  Share your ideas of what keeps you reading and keeps your mind nimble.

I am a Christian-pacifist-anarchist.  Throw me a topic and I’ll try to write a response.