Story of the World to Ian, aged 7. We were curled up under a favorite Auntie's blanket before a roaring fire (It's 20 degrees below zero here.), enjoying one of those this is why we homeschool mornings (Also helped that everyone else was actively engaged in non-shouting, non-running, non-hitting pursuits. Plus Ken was home to loom as an authority figure.).
So I read about Athens : Plato and democracy and education and laws and homes and games. Delightful.
Then I read about Sparta : boys sent to military camps at age 7 (Like you, Honey), being half-starved and pummelled in order to produce fearless, silent, obedient warriors. They proudly told of a hungry young boy who'd gotten his hands on a fox and was preparing to skin and cook it when an instructor appeared. The boy stuffed the fox into his tunic and turned to answer. While they conversed, the stuffed, angry fox scratched and bit him all over his torso ; however, he remained silent of the mauling pain, fearing the beating and dishonor more.
I turned to Ian with my eyes wide and a somber look on my face, expecting horror from my sweet boy.
But his wide eyes were absolutely shining. "Wow," he breathed, "That. Is. So. Awesome."
I give up. As this post practically wrote itself in my mind, I recalled several other What in the world am I doing with all these boys posts. So I have added Boys as a label and re-labelled those previous ones just in case there's anyone else wondering or wanting solidarity.
In a few hours, I plan to steep some Tension Tamer tea in my loveliest little cup, sip it slowly, and savor a viewing of Pride and Prejudice. My husband will join me, but I'm fairly certain he'll doze off or read something on the side (like 1001 Street Fighting Secrets or The Ten Day MBA).
I love my boys.