My children have literally grown up with Shakespeare, from the time my oldest was five, my middle three, and my son one. Of course it was much more prevalent when they were younger and I could read/sing/show them whatever I wanted. As they’ve gotten older, life gets in the way and other responsibilities and activities take over. So I’ve often wondered how much of what I tell them remains.
The other day I was telling them about the plan to scan Shakespeare’s grave, despite the curse.
“What did they find?” asked my oldest.
“They haven’t said yet,” I told them. “Apparently it’s a big deal for the 400th anniversary of his death, so we have to wait until then.”
“When did he die?” my middle child asked.
“I have no middle child,” I said, mouth agape.
She froze, realizing that Shakespeare Day is something I may have mentioned two or three thousand times in their lives. “Give me a hint,” she asked.
“Did he die on my birthday, or close to my birthday?” I asked. Embarrassed silence. “Oldest child,” I said, “Help her out, would you?”
“When’s your birthday?” asked oldest child.
I’m changing my will and giving everything to the boy. Also, changing his name to Cordelia.