My poor husband. He hates to read. He is not illiterate. He is nonliterate. He is capable; he chooses not to.
Sadly for him, he married a girl who can't get enough. I have a different book in my hands every time he returns home from the current business trip, and I have them stacked up on my bookshelf: my personal lineup for an endless literary feast.
When we were newlyweds, I read to him before we fell asleep at night. And then I would quiz him the next day, with comprehension questions to make sure he was listening and not dozing off at the sound of my voice. Isn't that such a Teacher thing to do? Listen carefully, young student. There will be a quiz. And not tonight, but in the morning. I'm looking for retention here, mister.
(There are many things about this paragraph that are clearly unique to early marriage. The greatest of all is the fact that he participated at all. He still loves me, even more so than our early days, but he doesn't feel quite so compelled to follow my every whim and great idea.)
My brother can relate. I forced him to play school even before he was old enough to attend, even before he had formulated his own opinions about the routines of the classroom. His strong opinions consisted of three words: No Thank You.
And now, my children fall prey to my love for teaching. But for them, there is no way out. They can neither outgrow me nor shut me down, for a very long time. They're stuck.
They got a teacher for a mommy. And a mommy for a teacher.
(It could be worse, little men of mine.)