A typical night and day here

12:07 a.m.
And you folks thought Shakespeare had authorship "issues." Poor William Langland! The medieval poem Piers Plowman is attributed to him, but most scholars contend that this is simply a matter of academic compromise since nothing is known about Langland but what can be scraped together from hints in the poem.

A poem that exists in at least three accepted versions, most editions of which retain their Middle English roots.

Lewed men leved hym wel and liked hise wordes,
Comen up knelynge to kissen his bulle.
He bonched hem with his brevet and blered hire eighen,
And raughte with his rageman rynges and broches.

Like, that sort of Middle English.

Okay. It wasn't a bad work night. Really. It almost never is. I'm just pouring it on. I mean, yeah, Langland wrote the poem (well, someone wrote the poem, anyway) in the late fourteenth century, so it is in Middle English, but it's not as if my assignment is to cast Piers Plowman in the common idiom.

Just write about the poet.

About whom nothing is known for certain.

He bonched hem... indeed.

I finish editing my work on Langland just after midnight and, after performing various rituals to ensure we are, indeed, locked in, head to bed to read.

1:17 a.m.
Subtitled: In which I drive Mr. M-mv bonkers.

Het up on three pots of Maxwell House, I am like a baby monitor set much too sensitively. Yeah, I'm wired to pick up chipmunk stomach rumblings, I'm so caffeinated, and amplified, everything sounds scary-scary. Every noise, whine, sigh, and animal rustle requires me to jostle my husband and inquire, "Did you hear that?"

He didn't, not once, but that doesn't keep him from mumbling, "Mmmm. No, it's okay."

The ratio is generally three "Mmmm. No, it's okay"s to one terse "Well, are you going to look?"

1:50 a.m.
Miss M-mv(ii) stops by to advise me that she heard something. Join the club, honey. Join the club. Mr. M-mv works a quick but thorough perimeter check (from inside the little house in the tiny woods on the prairie) and assures us we're okay.

Miss M-mv(ii) needs some water and bathroom break.

1:59 a.m.
I doze off and awaken squealing like Wilbur to Miss M-mv(i) tapping me on the shoulder to inquire what everyone else is doing.

2:17 a.m.
The last time I looked at the clock.

6:33 a.m.
Mr. M-mv, who is taking the later train today (I wonder why), gets a kiss from the "unedited" me (i.e., the one that did not comb her hair or brush her teeth before bidding her man goodbye). On mornings like this, if I register any thought at all, it's something like, "Oh, whatever. He'll be back. He only has enough money for the train, lunch, and an emergency. The man will want dinner. And a change of clothes for tomorrow. Good night."

I return to a warm bed.

8:37 a.m.
From their beds, the Misses M-mv are discussing new adventures for their imaginary friends, Fodd and Snakey. The slice of sky I can see from my pillow is autumn blue lit by a butter-yellow sun.

I pretend to be annoyed. "You girls were up all night! Let's keep it down in there!" I call. Of course, they weren't. That's part of the schtickl. Giggles. "Good morning, Mom!" they sing.

Insert cuddling, laughter, and the sort of conversation that currently punctuates my life, what, with its soft commas, defining periods, hesitant semi-colons, ambiguous ellipses, and frequent exclamation points.

8:45 a.m.
You can tell much about my morning by the mug I choose for that first cup of the brown stimulant. Today it was the authoritative and obvious CAFFEINATED mug. No time for gliding in the rocker with the big white mug to warm my hands. No curling under the llamas blanket in the green chair with a book. No, CAFFEINATED says, "Get to work." And I do. I proofread my short essays on Langland again and begin submitting them while preheating the oven, ensuring I have enough eggs for muffins, and reviewing with Miss M-mv(ii) why it's generally not the best idea to pair flowered pink pants with a blue striped shirt.

Insert breakfast, bedmaking, and good conversation, including discussions about what separates immature/inexperienced readers from mature/experienced readers and about intelligent design.

On the former: Master M-mv (channeling Perrine, I'm certain, but I'm still happy to hear him sorting out his philosophy of literature): "The immature reader spends a lot of time carrying on about the 'depressing' nature of interpretive fiction. 'Oh, why can't we have a happy ending once in a while?' Um, ma'am, the romance section is over there."

On the latter (pausing over his Sun-Times): "I'm guessing this joke has been made before, but there's an oxymoron in there just waiting to burst out, don't you think?" Well, what do you expect from a young man whose "What part of the quantum theory do you not understand?" sweatshirt is speeding toward us from Signals—a birthday gift from the women M-mv?

Winter swim team began yesterday. Master is coaching the younger divisions and competing in his own division. About six weeks separated the end of summer swim team and the beginning of winter. While he talked to me, he rubbed his arms. "Man," he said, helping me with the dishes, "getting back into shape is never easy, huh? But getting out? A snap."

9:36 a.m.
I check email and post this at M-mv. I'll update it as we take breaks in our day.

10:17 a.m.
"I am such a happy girl," announces Miss M-mv(i). "The dark-eyed juncos have returned, and I feel fine."

10:58 a.m.
The Misses M-mv have practiced their math facts and written in their journals. Master M-mv has finished his history reading. In the last five minutes, we have recounted the life and times of Gizmo (our first cat), pulled out photo albums to reacquaint ourselves with just how cute Gizmo was and been sidetracked by photos from Mr. M-mv's brush with life in the theater (his turn as Motel in a community theater production of Fiddler on the Roof), come up with five decent synonyms for fickle (mercurial, changeable, unstable, capricious, tempermental) before consulting the thesaurus, and discussed the first e in changeable.

11:08 a.m.
Time for elevenses. Today? Hot pretzels, cheddar cheese, apple slices, and milk.

11:23 a.m.
The mail is here! The mail is here!

11:45 a.m.
Among today's mail treasure? A postcard addressed to Master M-mv from our family's dentist.

"'Warmest wishes to you on your special day,'" Master reads to us. Tapping the card, he drawls, "So nice of Dr. E- to remember my birthday."

1:10 p.m.
It now occurs to me that this will be the trickiest part of today's narrative because this is what many have doggedly pursued. What programs? What curricula? Workbooks? Drill? Latin?

…

Over lunch we discuss which character in The Wind in the Willows we would like to portray. Yes, even Master M-mv. It is another sign that the guy is fairly comfortable in his own skin, being, after all, a teen who can participate in such musing rambles without belittling the younger participants.

"The better question might be, 'Which Winnie-the-Pooh character—Milne not Disney, of course—best represents your personality?'" he suggests.

The conversation drifts and wanders and plays and tugs.

And in one of the many companionable silences, we hear the low sad wail of a freight train coming through the little town on the prairie.

"It sounds just like a poem that makes your eyes hurt from holding the tears in" is how Miss M-mv(i) once described the sound.

1:48 p.m.
The phone doesn't ring in our house. Sure, folks call us. But the phone doesn't ring. Ayup. Seven or so years ago, I turned off the ringer, and I haven't looked back. This is what voice mail is for, I reason, to help us manage intrusions. I respond to calls when it's convenient for me.

Like walking through the food store with a cell phone glued to one's ear, answering the phone during our reading-thinking-learning day puts a picture in my mind of the sort of person I just don't want to be. You know? The sort who leaps up from a discussion about whether Ratty or Mole is the better friend... simply because the phone is ringing? Not who I want to be.

No rings. No psychic dissonance.

When I have a minute, I check the caller id roster. Aha! That cad! Mr. M-mv! Oh, he of the "Mmmm. No, it's okay" on a scary-scary night. He has called.

I punch in the number.

"Hi!"

"Mmmm."

"I called earlier to see how you and the kids are doing."

Mr. M-mv has a smiling voice. You can't hear it here, but there it is. Smile. Smile. Smile. A smiling voice, even on five (very broken) hours of sleep. Okay. Yes, of course, he is, by most (of my) accounts, a good man. A great father. A wonderful husband. But last night? I wasn't too impressed by his seeming disregard for my terror of things that go hiss, bump, whirr, and whine in the night. So there. Yes, I'm a little cranky this afternoon.

"Mmmm."

"So, that's how it is, eh?" (Smile. Smile. Smile.)

"I guess."

"I'll see you on the 7 p.m. bus, then."

"Okay."

"I love you."

Long pause while I play with the phone cord. Wait. It's a cordless phone. Man, can you tell we've been together for nearly than two and half decades? Heh, heh, heh.

"I love you, too, but... I think you were a fickle knight." So, there.

"Yes, I read the site this morning." (Smile. Smile. Smile. Oh, damn that smiling man who drinks no coffee and is wide, WIDE awake after lunch.) "Very funny and well written. As always."

"Well, then. Seven o'clock?"

"Yes. And I love you."

"Well. There's that."

Smile. Smile. Smile. I smile, smile, smile as I nestle the cordless phone into its cradle. And I think to myself, "What a wonderful man."

2:03 p.m.
Master M-mv and I agree to discuss today's short story, Graham Greene's "The Destructors," while I make dinner. In the meantime, he's off to work on some physics problems.

The Misses M-mv and I spread out our history and geography books on the table in the bird room.

"It's time for a little smackerel," I suggest.

3:05 p.m.
On an initial reading, this personal essay earns praise.

What follows is an outline of the five books that contributed to my bildungsroman. They are arranged in the order in which they were woven into the fabric of my imagination. Note that these are not necessarily my five favorite books, but rather five books that have helped make me the person I am today, by nurturing something in me or provoking me to thought.

The Boxcar Children
I had, in my youth, the great fortune of a long train ride downtown to school every weekday morning, alone with my mom. Other mothers might let their offspring wear out their thumbs on GameBoys whilst they perused the latest tittle-tattle in the most recent issue of People. Not my mom. My mom always had a book to read aloud. One of these books has become a favorite of mine—The Boxcar Children. Well-nigh twelve years have passed since the initial reading. In that space of time, I have oft reacquainted myself with the book. Both of my parents are alive, so I have never needed take shelter in a boxcar, but I used to think about how much fun it would be to live like Henry, Jessie, Violet, and Benny. Now, at sixteen years of age, of course, such fantasies have left—the siblings' existence was, after all, meager. I'd be hungry! But this was my first adventure book, so it was formative. I pursued the series only to Book Two, which was not in the slightest bit magical, merely a way to tell more about the four siblings. They were not particularly likeable characters; it was their adventure that had attracted me.

The Phantom Tollbooth
Growing up in a book-oriented family is not the easiest of tasks: Dusting the shelves on which the tomes reside is itself a Herculean trial! With a house governed by a bibliophile, however, it is never difficult to obtain read-aloud time. Even after we started our homeschooling adventure, my mom always found time to read aloud a new text—either from our expansive collection or from the box most recently delivered by the UPS man, whose (very) frequent stops at our house made him (almost) family. Early on, The Phantom Tollbooth transported my mom and me to Norton Juster’s wonderful world of words, which awakened in me a love of wordplay and proper grammar that has stayed with me since.

A Long Way from Chicago
We have also read Richard Peck’s A Long Way from Chicago, which was brought to life by my mom’s fantastic expression and deft use of many accents for each of the different characters. My favorite of these was the drawl she adopted to do Grandma Dowdel. I have revisited this book on my own many times. With every return, I find in the book's leaves inspiration to write my own story, but I never do. It is, though, a great story and constant inspiration.

1984
I am certain that no book has made me think quite like the macabre work of George Orwell, 1984. Government manipulation is the driving thought stimulant. The Party uses propaganda and the omnipotent "Big Brother" to bend the citizens of "future-past" London into submission. The Party’s power is such that 2+2=5 merely for the sake of showing the ultimate power wielded by Party members. Chilling. Most fortunately, however, the year 1984 has come and gone without incident.

The Complete Plays of William Shakespeare
Shakespeare says it best. While many of his plays are derived from the works of others, their appeal and timelessness stem from his own pure genius. The Complete Plays of William Shakespeare has provided me with many long hours of mind-expanding entertainment. Most unfortunately, however, we live today in a society in which a person cannot quote Shakespeare in a public place without having people look upon him as if he were crazy. (Oh, those fustilarians!) In the safety of the home "book-guild," however, the practice of quoting Shakespeare is more than acceptable. Lucky am I to have parents who partake in my affinity for the Bard.

Yeah. It's clever, and it demonstrates that someone has been studying. Hard. A teacher of sophomore or junior English would likely be delighted with this sample. Hell, I taught frosh comp and tutored undergraduates and graduates in a competitive university's writing lab, and most days, I would have given my right and left arms for a sample with half this much promise.

But this writer runs the risk of skidding by on vocabulary and literary name-dropping if a tough editor doesn't point out the need for him to begin the hard work of developing the sort of style that doesn't let tone outstrip content (or stand in its stead) and doesn't rely on subheads to do the work of transitions.

"Because this isn't a Powerpoint presentation, big guy."

"I know, but..."

"But nothing. Subheads are useful, but you need to learn how to transition without them before you can use them knowingly. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah."

"Give it another go?"

"Yup. Thanks, Mom."

"You're welcome. Hey, and, John?"

"Yeah?"

"Good work."

"Thanks."

Draft will follow draft. And that is how one learns to write. By writing.

I know, I know. You want to know what writing program we use. When Master first posted to a message board in a forum of primarily home-educating mothers once upon a time ago, this was, in fact, exactly what one of the mothers asked: What program?

None. Okay? None.

We don't use any writing programs.

For that matter, we didn't use any reading programs either. All three children learned to read Scout-style with a little bit of Spectrum-workbooking here and a little bit of McGuffey's readers there.

We really, really do just read, think, learn. For years now, we've been singing the same song. Skip the lesson planning, the chore charts, the elaborate schedules, the contracts. Just do it. Open the books. Study. Read. Think. Discuss. Write. Model the behaviors you want to see. Put the students, the children in situations in which they can suceed.

And just look what happens.

They read.

They think.

They write.

They draw.

They laugh.

They love.

They play.

They work.

They cooperate.

They sing.

They dance.

They learn.

Yes!

They learn!

They grow and they live.

And someday... they will leave. May it be with fond, fond memories of warm brownies, good conversations, great books, and the freedom they enjoyed, the freedom in which to think and learn and become.

Added later: In our editing session, I also mentioned that while a certain brand of prof might enjoy all of the obvious sucking up, I am not that sort of teacher. Yes, I was greatly amused, but only mildly moved. Moreover, if one is going to begin with a sort of Dickensian flavor (bildungsroman puts one in mind of David Copperfield or Great Expectations), one should carry it through. Let the rewriting begin!

3:15 p.m.
"What are you doing?"

"Writing about our day."

"Why?"

"Because some people like reading that sort of thing."

"Do you?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Okay. Not usually."

"Why?"

"That's just the sort of gal I am."

"Well, we are pretty interesting."

"Sometimes."

"No, really. Usually. We are. We do cool things. Like art class. And reading aloud. And Fodd and Snakey. And Shakespeare. And bird-watching. And all that."

"You're right. We're pretty interesting."

"Did you write about my math test?"

"No."

"How about [sister's] spelling game?"

"Um, no."

"Hey! You wrote about Boy-boy's essay and not mine!"

Insert heavy sigh and bribery with Hershey Kisses.

4:29 p.m.
Quite honestly, I don't know how these things happen. We're doing our quick tidy of the joint, sweeping away the kipple, putting everything back into its place, when, what's this? Disc Two of The Boy and His Horse? We returned this two or three weeks ago. Argh. We were just at the library yesterday. No, of course, I don't mind going back, but, well, now I'll have to change out of my softie Mickey Mouse pants. Besides, it's chilly out there. Argh.

5:37 p.m.
I call to see if I can foist the library run off on Mr. M-mv. I'm comfy. I dial... and get sidetracked.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Listen. What's your 'love language'?"

"What?"

"You heard me. What's your love language?"

"What is --?"

"I think its some Dr. Phil/Oprah mumbo-jumbo; sh-, it may even be some religious thing. I don't know. Like those marriage encounter bumper stickers we sometimes see. I don't know. 'Love language.' Sounds self-explanatory. The language of love, right? So, what's yours?"

"Um... Well, how about, erm --?"

"See, now, that's what I thought of, too! I don't think that's what they're talking about, though."

"You sure?"

"No, but I'm not asking."

"It's a good language."

Insert giggling. "Yes, yes, it is. Seriously, though. Something I can put on M-mv."

"How 'bout how well you take care of me?"

"Okay."

"How I know you'll always be there for me."

"Oh, that's nice."

"How 'bout the way you kiss me goodbye in the morning."

"Okay."

"What's your 'love language'?"

"Wanna get Chinese tonight?"

"Um, yeah. Sounds great."

"Hey, and I read about that horrible mistake those Yankees made. Sorry, dude."

"'s'kay. I'm a White Sox fan, now."

"Sorry, man. Love you."

"Love you, too. Chinese?"

"Yeah. And while you're waiting for it, can you run into the library for me?"

"Of course."

"Thanks. So that's my love language tonight: a clean kitchen, takeout, and a man who can pay for it... oh, and run an errand that I don't want to. Oh, oh, and that other thing we can't put on the blog. That, too. Bye."

"Bye, cutie." (Smile. Smile. Smile. Mr. M-mv has a smiling voice. You can't hear it here, but there it is. Smile. Smile. Smile. A smiling voice, even on five (very broken) hours of sleep.)

I don't know what a love language is, but Mr. M-mv is nearly always speaking mine.

6:09 p.m.
When Miss M-mv(i) reads aloud, which she does well and with expression that very nearly puts mine under a basket, she twirls a piece of her hair near the front of her head.

When Miss M-mv(ii) reads aloud, which she does reasonably well and with an inventiveness that includes postures and voices for every character, she swings her foot, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

They each listen well, too, which is a good thing. Listening well is probably the more important of the two skills, no? Yet we're a family that likes to perform, to give words our spin, to introduce each other to new stories and worlds. So we read aloud and we listen.

6:23 p.m.
Correcting Master M-mv's math and physics I find myself mentally intoning for the two-millionth time, "I am so glad he is taking math and science at the college next semester."

6:40 p.m.
There's another six or so hours of this blow-by-blow to go, but I realize that those of you who visited strictly to find out what programs we use and how many hours we're at it must be terribly disappointed. It's not going to become any clearer, really, although I can offer a little more. The Misses M-mv read, wrote (and in the context of their writing studied grammar and spelling), worked on their history and geography topics, practiced their math facts, mastered several new math concepts (which they then practiced), played, added ten new words to their personal dictionaries and learned their meanings, made notes in their nature journals about the many birds returning to our feeders, read, finished the first half of their math assignment, ate, played, read, talked, learned... and now they're watching a show while they wait for Dad. (Yes, we have a television. Yes, it is often warm to the touch. I'm not at all sure why you ever thought otherwise.)

Master M-mv has checked the lit, English, math, science (physics), and history boxes on his mental checklist. His electives, Shakespeare and advanced logic, will be checked after dinner.

It has been neither a great nor a bad day. So far, it has simply been familiar and, in its own way, good. It has most certainly been typical.

And I am so over apologizing for having this life. It's one part good luck and one part hard work, and believe me, I work. HARD. If it bothers you that I am content, that my family is happy, you have a problem. Fix it... not by attempting to malign me in email or in anonymous posts to a message board but by doing the hard work that, coupled with good luck, undergirds any reasonably successful endeavor.

I wish you success. Don't deride me for celebrating, for appreciating, for being ever so grateful for mine.

More later. It's my turn to read aloud. Yes, again.

7:23 p.m.
"I'm getting a glass of water. Anyone else need one?"

I stop to type another quick entry.

Mr. M-mv thought that last one, while necessary, was a little hard. "But it's true. I mean, when did it become a crime to be content?"

Master M-mv reminded me that since he and Mr. M-mv are heading out to pick up Chinese, I won't be making dinner. We'll discuss the short story... over dinner. The Misses will draw, and Mr. M-mv will eat a meal without being interrupted by colleagues, and Master and I will complete the day's objectives.

It's that simple.

7:30 p.m.
The girls still use a mild baby soap on their hair and skin, so baby smells waft through our home every night around this time, even though it's been seven years since anyone here was really a baby.

8:48 p.m.
Carl Linneaus. Also known as Carl von Linne. He is the subject of this evening's research and writing. I actually identified the resources I planned to use last night, which saves me time. Which is good because—chung! chung!—I will be watching Detective Stabler slip over to the dark side in just twelve minutes.

Dinner was delicious, by the way. I had pot stickers and shrimp fried rice. I am certain neither of those items appear on the "Heart Healthy" diet poster hanging in Dr. F-'s office.

Heh, heh, heh.

10:47 p.m.
I am a tired reader, thinker, and autodidact. An "Is it time for bed?" reader, thinker, and autodidact. An "Oh, my, this was fun! Can I sleep now?" reader, thinker, and autodidact.

The little old lady is whispering, "Hush."

No, I have not yet finished all that I had planned for this evening, but that's the neat thing about working hard: You can rest now and again.

I think it is time for me to rest. This show officially ends at 12:07 a.m. on Wednesday, October 12, though. We'll see.

11:42 p.m.
Things I forgot to mention: We danced today. And sang. That didn't make into the entry, somehow. I didn't workout at all. Every spare minute was spent making this entry as complete as possible. The Misses M-mv went to bed at 8:45 p.m. Master M-mv headed to bed at 10:30 p.m. While I was working, though, I heard the low, comfortable rumble of the two men in the house talking, laughing, and trading news. It is a good sound.

It's quiet now, though. I hear the washer and dryer, but nothing else. (I've got to write about our month with the rock tumbler. How did I fail to mention that in all of September?) Mr. M-mv has chosen an outfit for tomorrow, and I have chosen a book for the evening, Ruth Rendell's latest. If I get past the third chapter, I will be surprised.

That's a wrap, folks. Many thanks to all who stopped by.

Good morning, and in case I don't see ya, good afternoon, good evening, and good night!