Not-Homeschooling 101

Knowing that our Adventures in Homeschooling have recently taken a detour (i.e., our two oldest are attending the local public school this year), Rebekah sent me this link, which instantly became my new favorite blog post on homeschooling.

Why? Just because someone else was “dropping out of home school?” No. Because Simcha Fisher wrote it so…freely. Because it is so matter-of-fact. Because it’s real, and it’s funny. But above all, because it feels almost entirely devoid of the sometimes-crushing guilt too often associated with homeschooling and/or not-homeschooling.

So much of homeschooling talk is so…ultimate. Final. Decided. Case closed. Homeschool or bust (even if it turns out to be homeschool and bust). We attended a statewide homeschooling conference a couple years ago, and I’m really glad that we did. We came home newly inspired, with tons of ideas and resources and encouragement. We crossed paths with some really wonderful people, and also with some people who are really militant about homeschooling (those categories of course not being mutually exclusive :D).

We’ve never been terribly militant about homeschooling. (Our charity of speech in this regard was learned partly of necessity, as a rare homeschooling/pastor’s family in small towns in which schools and teachers comprise important parts of community and parish.) Are there a lot of things that are ideal about homeschooling? Yes. Is homeschooling The Ideal? Perhaps--but our world isn’t exactly idyllic, and I’d have to put so many qualifying and explanatory asterisks after “Ideal” that the word would become, for all practical purposes, devoid of meaning.

Was sending our kids to school an easy decision? No. Heck no. But it could have been a lot easier, had I allowed myself, in the throes of the “gut-wrenching decision” (aptly described by Fisher in another hilariously true article that Monique recently sent me), to accept three simple truths: We began homeschooling because it was the best thing for our kid(s) and our family in that town at that point in our lives. Now we’re sending two kids to the community school just down the road because it’s the best thing for our kids and our family in this town at this point in our lives. Furthermore, should any of those factors change, this decision is immediately reversible.

Those statements sound so much simpler than the hopes and fears and prayers that cluttered (and to some extent still clutter) the mental space occupied by this decision. But that’s the honest distilled truth of our present situation, whether I like it or no. As Fisher wrote elsewhere,“The best advice I got about homeschooling? Do it one year at a time.” And, I would add, evaluate it one kid at a time. Boy, do I wish that more people on both sides of the homeschooling fence, even public school teachers, even people at homeschooling conferences, were wise and brave and kind enough to give and/or heed that advice. While I might still secretly envy stalwart homeschoolers’ twelve-year master plan, I must live in the reality of my family—these children, in this place, at this time.    

Whether we’re back at homeschooling in a year or three years or never, I pray that I will become wiser and braver and kinder all the while—confident (but not militant) about the educational choices we make for each of our children. And above all, confident in the mercy that covers my sinful shortcomings and in the grace that blesses my children in spite of my mistakes.

Hippie talk

I'm not really lecturing you, you know. I wouldn't presume. 

Ten years of parenting have taught me that it is not possible to force a child to become enriched. They aren't like wheat, you know? You can lead a girl to Latin and you can make her conjugate for hours, but you cannot force her to love Virgil. You can lead a boy to the piano and you can make him practice, but you cannot force him to have a heart for music. You can even lead a child to the twelve times table and you can make her memorize it; you can make her rattle it off like a trained monkey to the amazement of all your friends; but you absolutely cannot force her to grasp that numbers are never cruel, but always clever and often amusing. And so it goes.

What do you mean you don't want to play with the pluperfect subjunctive?

However, hope springs eternal! One of perhaps two things the mavens of child psychology have gotten right is the practice of providing children with enriched environments. There is no real need to force a child to want what is beautiful. A child is a man, and thus the apex of beauty. Give him beauty and he can be trusted to absorb it into his being by sheer accident. I have found this to be doubly the case when a child’s life is filled with what is genuinely, objectively beautiful over and above those things that are educational, manipulative, and loud. If, however, you would like to ensure that your children lose as many their rough edges as they sanely may, there is one thing above all others that you need to do: be enriched yourself.

If you want your kid to love reading the Aeneid in the language of Virgil, take up Latin yourself. If you want your kid to love practicing his arpeggios, take up the piano yourself. If you want your children to feel comfortable around numbers, don’t be shy about what you don’t know; rather, become reacquainted with mathematics and discover again how charming it can be. Learn before your children, with them, and after them all the things you want them to learn, especially when they are little. Let them see you struggling to become a more beautiful person, and they will seek to join you in the struggle simply because that is how love works.

Work with them instead of on them, and you'll both be happier. Then the day will come when they surpass you, which is really what you wanted all along.

When life gives you caterpillars

They will make frass. Loads and loads of it. Unbelievable quantities of it. You will mutter to yourself, How can three little caterpillars possibly produce so much frass? You will have to clear it out, every single day.*


And you will have to feed them, from the herbs you were intending for another purpose, every single day. You will grumble, How can three little caterpillars possibly eat so much? And why do I feed them, when it just turns into frass that I must then clean?


Then, without regard for your science lesson schedule, the little buggers will pupate overnight, so you can’t even watch them do it. You will wake up and discover these brownish dull things taking up space on your counter, completely insensible to your careful plans, to say nothing of your preferred décor. At least they’re not frassing everything up anymore, but neither are they making much of a positive contribution to the household economy. How long can this go on?


But then—oh! A crack in the chrysalis—the wiggle of a wet wing!
You will hold your breath at the glimpse of a miracle in the making.


In the blink of an eye, the frass is forgotten, as improbably metamorphed beauty takes flight.


*On the bright side, frass is neither stinky nor goopy. In fact, I’ve read that it actually tastes like what the caterpillars eat, in which case our caterpillars’ frass would have been parsley-flavored. We decided not to test that particular factoid, so do let me know, intrepid readers, if you verify that.

Spreading the love

I'm just going to take a minute here and give a shout out to my best friend Mott Media, LLC. Thank you, Mott Media, LLC, for supplying our children with copies of books my grandfather remembers using back in his one-room country schoolhouse days. Thank you very much, Mott Media, LLC, for providing our children with books that actually teach them how to read, write, and 'rithmetic, with such minimal input from me.

I feel like I could hug you, Mott Media, LLC, mostly because you wouldn't hug me back. No, you'd slap my wrist with a ruler and tell me to get back to work. I respect that about you, Mott Media, LLC, and I respect your products.

And, just so we're clear, America, I'm being completely serious with you. Go have yourself a gander, ASAP.

Usage you can and must use: Begging the Question

This is really, really important.

"Begging the question" is a technical term in the field of rhetoric. It means making an argument which assumes an unproven point. Let's watch a five-year-old beg the question flawlessly:

"Mom, if you make me go to bed now, you won't get to watch the movie with me!"

True, son, true. But here's the thing: I don't want to watch the movie with you! I want to watch it with Dad! Without you, my dear boy! So your argument has failed on your sweet assumption that I want you around right now. Off you go, XOXO.

Another? We'd better. How about an entirely fictional friend of an entirely fictional homeschooling family (you can tell it's fictional because I'm not a homeschooler):

"But they won't have friends!"

Yes! YES! That's the point! We don't want them to have any friends, at least not the kind they'd find at school. You're a charming person and we appreciate your concern, but you have assumed something about what we want for our children, and it's not an accurate something. PS, have you noticed that our house is swarming with friends for them?

Tracking? Great.

Now, what if a five-year-old boy announced to you that his favorite movie was Saw III? No, wait--The Saint? You would surely want to know what appalling mockery of a parent allowed a five-year-old to watch such an atrocity. But that doesn't mean any question (ie proposition) was begged. A question (ie inquiry) was prompted. Begging the question does NOT mean, "makes one wonder" or "leads one to ask."

Again, a homeschooling parent has great anxiety about homeschooling. Those aware of this anxiety would like to know why these crazy people are homeschooling if they're so unhappy with it. But again, no question (proposition) begged here. Only a question (inquiry) naturally formed in the mind of the hearer in response to the available evidence. (BTW, the polite thing to do here is either to ask or to put the whole thing out of your mind, not pretend to sympathize and then badmouth the anxious homeschooler to your other friend later on.)

Fact: misusing this usage damages the credibility of the [mis]user. The increasing misuse of this usage is, as the homeschoolers know, more evidence that schools do not teach what students need to learn, ie, how to think. As such, it separates the thinkers from the bloggers. So handle with care. "Beg the question" is not an expression or a cliché. When in doubt, look for an actual tired idiom. Or really impress everyone by just saying, "It made me wonder [why anyone cared so much about begging the question]".

Donate today!

The Clemency Coalition

Influencing likabililty, whether you like it or not.

The Clemency Coalition exists to hunt down the undersocialized to release them from social poverty. We support the rights of every child to be shaped, if not controlled, by a group of his or her peers. The Clemency Coalition especially targets homeschoolers.

The Clemency Coalition is dedicated to working to protect the undersocialized from THAT OUTFIT. Our members and staff maintain and model the most recent fashions, voice inflections, bravado, and underwear. We are cool. We are outgoing. We are the friends of every undersocialized kid everywhere.

With the help of people like you, The Clemency Coalition has saved dozens of homeschoolers from a life of hanging only with their siblings. Won’t you sponsor an undersocialized kid today?

An undersocialized girl, before and after

When you contribute to The Clemency Coalition, your dollars are purposed toward building friendships between the undersocialized and members of normal society. Once sponsored, your undersocialized child is given . . .

• a complete makeover, including the most currently fashionable hairstyle, clothes, and shoes;

• one or more subscriptions to normal, necessary magazines, insuring that he or she will learn information vital to scoring dates;

• the tools he or she needs to Twitter, Facebook, MySpace, and YouTube his or her way into the hearts of normal people.

Most effectively, your undersocialized child is connected to a local, normally-socialized peer, who is then paid very well to include your child in social activities and to be your child’s BFF, if not his or her date to the big dance.

Cost of sponsorship changes every day; contact us at our home office to learn more. And remember: the sooner you cut that check, the sooner The Clemency Coalition can get to work purging the world of weird.

For the children, folks. Seriously.

Homeschooling, hooligan-style

Homeschooling is a novelty around here. I get the impression that some of the venerable ladies of the congregation suspect, based on their observations of churchyard goings-on, that “homeschooling” consists mainly of hooligans running about outside. One retired schoolteacher, whenever she sees us outdoors during “normal school hours,” makes a special point of asking whether “we” are having class outside today, when she can see for herself that what “we” are in fact doing is chasing each other and the dog around the yard with balls and sticks. (Um—Animal exercise physiology class?)


I have two reactions to this perception of our family’s Great Homeschooling Adventure:

1) How sad, that they should be so mistaken.
2) They’re so, so right. :P

Resources, haphazardly recommended

Thus far in my parenting career, I've come across a few schooly materials that stand out from the rest. You deserve to know about these materials, just because you're so you.

I don't have the wherewithal to offer up a gushy review of each, and I'm sorry about that. Suffice it to say, these puppies are pick of the litter. At least give them a run over at your library, if your library is cool enough to stock actual books on actual shelves. Some people's libraries are not so cool. I won't mention any names.

The ABC's and All Their Tricks by Margaret M. Bishop, for all those times you wish you knew whyfore W or whyfore J.

Geography Songs Kit from Rainbow Resource Center, because singing "TURKMENISTAN! TAJIKISTAN! UZBEKISTAN!" is sure to make your kid a hit at birthday parties. No, really.

Family Math, by Jean Stenmark, et al. This thing is overflowing with really good ideas for turning everyday activities into math lessons. I'm a math dropout myself, and I really appreciate some hand holding when it comes to mathy topics. But I daresay even the math geniuses among us might enjoy shaking a few math things up a bit. Look, I'm just saying . . .

Handbook of Nature Study, by Anna Botsford Comstock. Everything you never knew you wanted to know about just about everything in your backyard, the neighbor's backyard, and that guy's yard over there, with a few facts germane to the local byways thrown in for good measure. I don't know what I'd do without this lovely book, and I'm serious. It's great. A tiny, tad bit Darwinist in it's initial approach, but even Darwin can't make a mess of everything.

Finally, the eponymous Tom Brown's Field Guide to Nature and Survival for Children, because everyone deserves to know the best way to stalk a coon. This book is really fun, especially if you've a few cubs in your pack that need serious lostproofing.

I'll post more as I come across it. And if you have some treasured resource in your parenting coffers, please, please, please, please tellums all about it. Please. Thank you.

The show must go on

Twas a great day on Planet Homeschool. We spent much of the morning as world-class cricketologists: We read about crickets. We caught crickets. We made an ecosystem for our crickets. After lunch, we pulled off an astonishingly quiet Quiet Time. But all through the day, even as we marched down the markerboard with minimal meltdowns, I had a nagging feeling that I was forgetting something. . . something important.

I shook off that feeling as best I could, reminding myself to focus on what we were doing rather than on what we weren’t. And I thought: Hey, I can do this. Hey, I’m doing this! The afternoon drew to a close in triumph* with the reading of the last Sidewalk Sentence, and we began eagerly to anticipate Dad’s appearance. Suddenly, the nebulous forgetfulness that had been bothering me all day came sharply into focus in a single, urgent word: Supper!

Right. I’m supposed to feed them all, too. Every day. Several times, every day. Sigh.

Everyone got fed, and everyone was happy, especially when I pulled out the leftover cookies for dessert. But I’m at least one ball short of an amateur juggling act, ya know? :P

I know I'm not supposed to try this at home,
but where the heck else am I supposed to try it?

*Lest you be conjuring up some ridiculously idealistic picture of our day in your head, let it be known that “triumph” can be defined as follows: BoyOne hopping back and forth over his Sidewalk Sentences, insisting that he can read them just fine upside down (he can); BoyTwo dancing about in rage because BoyThree interfered with his dirt pile; BoyThree, moving on with complete unconcern for the maelstrom in his wake, dumping an entire bucket of water onto himself; the dog all the while trying really hard to get someone to throw her ball.

Homeschooling 002

I could lament the fact that the housekeeping (such as it was) is going to take another hit as this Grand Experiment continues.

Instead, I think I’ll rejoice in another excuse to ignore the mess.

(Yes, of course we include chores as part of our day. These 5-, 3-, and 1- year-old boys do their chores with an enthusiasm that generally results in more work for Mom :P)

Ants in the kitchen?
That's not a cleaning problem;
it's a science project!

Homeschooling 001

I don’t know anything. But that’s okay. I’ve got what I need for now (for ever) in our first family memory verse of the “school year.”

The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases;
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
Lamentations 3:22-23

New every morning. Good deal. We can work with that.

Homeschooling 311

A long, hyperbolic, opinionated rant aimed at no one and everything.

There is no such thing as homeschooling. This somewhat existential yet deeply actual fact can perhaps be more fully understood this way: “Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.”

My husband and I decided against sending our kids to organized school when our oldest was around three. We decided this not out of some smug sense of our own superiority or because we believed the conspiracy-thumping hypsters. We decided this because we spent so much time doing dirty parenting jobs, we figured we could just as well do the dirty work of teaching the children to read on top of it all. And because we’re really, really possessive, but I’ll get into that some other time.

So we started researching our options and found that there are billions of stars in the homeschooling universe; homeschooling is infinite and being stretched infinitely into everything and nothing, so on, &c. And, as if this weren’t complicated enough, homeschooling is legion: structured, un-, eclectic; Classical, Charlotte Mason, Waldorf . . . It never ends. It cannot end. If it did, it wouldn’t be homeschooling.

But! While homeschooling is, ultimately, impossible to define, each method of homeschooling is at once inclusive and exclusive. In fact, once you select an approach you had better stick to it, for every other method is instant death.

Should you wish really to be a classical homeschooler, then you must follow the pre-fab structure laid out in this carefully researched, HISTORICALLY PROVEN! book; you must purchase every last colorfully packaged piece of curriculum provided by this publisher; you must commit your every waking moment to a scheduled scrutiny of each modicum of information about the history of the West, and only in this way can you be considered “classical.” If you really want to be an unschooler, then—good news!—you need purchase nothing. But if your kid is not naked but for a thick crust of mud at least once a day, and if you schedule bedtimes or expect the two-year-old to put her poop in the toilet instead of in the garden, then you don’t pass muster.

Which is the crux of the problem. The homeschooling universe dares to stretch far past education into life control. In some circles, should you wear conventional clothing or—gasp!—makeup, don’t even think about calling yourself a homeschooler. In other circles, should you purchase your bread pre-sliced, should you even go so far as to bake bread with flour you did not mill yourself (HT: Rebekah), do not presume to call yourself a homeschooler. In other circles, should you think Bible Bowl competitions weird, should you enjoy reading Harry Potter, should you vaccinate, should you consider using a curriculum that even mentions Charles Darwin in passing, give up and go Public. And in still other circles, should you dare mention that perhaps the Virgin Mary had no other children but Christ, or that the Book of James is a good read, or that—egad!—you dislike barley and hops, get out your helmet! You will likely be stoned.

Under such conditions, the potential for gravitational collapse is very high. Hence, good and gentle reader, the conclusion that homeschooling does not exist—too many contrary variables. And if homeschooling does exist, it surely has an event horizon by now. Best just to leave it alone.

So, how, then, to talk about this thing that I do all day, every day with my kids? I don’t know yet, really. “Homeschooling” makes me sad and angry, so I don’t do it anymore. Instead, like some of the other DIYEducation types we know, my husband and I just do whatever we want, whenever we want, however we want to do it: We buy scads of books (buy them, unless they’re kitschy, because I don’t like having to stuff a book into even a generous library’s return policy timeframe). Some of these books are professed curricula, some of them are turn-of-the-century crazy, some of them just look fun. We take lots of trips out to Grandpa’s farm, we watch BBC videos on YouTube, we cook, we play, we read, we write, we figure
. . .

I don’t want to call our days’ activities “homeschooling,” because doing so attaches too many politics and makes our days’ activities more difficult than they need to be. You know, when I obligate myself to a group, or a philosophy, or a government in something as basic and as mine as the raising of my children, the raising of my children is suddenly dictated by the external obligator.* My kids are mine, given to me by God, the giver of all good things. He entrusts me with their care, and as my Master He may then dictate the terms of all eternal matters relating to my children. We don’t mess around with Scripture or catechetical instruction, neither do we blow off church as Warm and Fuzzy Hour. God, we take very seriously, because He loves us.

But on matters of mere human construct (things that are passing away even as I type this), I’m going to do with and for my children what I think best according to my confession. Homeschool Materials Publishers do not love us. They want our money. Thus, I submit to the Church, but I will not submit to Susan Wise Bauer.

I also get that I’m enacting modern ideals in a post-modern way, but let’s not talk about that just now. Look kids, a butterfly! Catch it and identify it in under ten minutes, and I’ll let you help me bake a half batch of Dad’s favorite cookie.

*And for those of you who choose to send your kids to school, be it Lutheran or private or government, be it known that you can’t really choose wrong when it comes to your kids’ education. There are good schools and bad schools, to be sure, but there is no such thing as The Only Way in matters of learning how to write your name.

Homeschooling 201

Now that we have the basics in hand, we can move through some more advanced material.

The skies are falling this month, most observably tonight. So, hand your oldest child a printout containing pertinent details about this particular falling sky, and bribe her to read it to her siblings. Read a summary of the more interesting angle over your lunch hour, and look excited when you announce that the family gets to take a field trip out to Country Church to watch the shower.

Then, make Quiet Hour into Quiet Two Hours; the little loves need more nap if they're going to be up late having fun. Plan a paper plate supper. Take a long walk downtown to buy $1 notepads--for journaling observations, of course--and a couple gallons of bug spray. Keep everyone from fighting with ease: "If you say that to your sister one more time, I'm leaving you home. Get it?"

Load up the van around 8:30P and drive 20 miles to your light-pollutionless location. Let the urchins run amok as the sun sets. Spread blankets, and "encourage them" to lie down for the big show. They will be tired. They will fall asleep.

You will be alone in the quiet in the dark under the stars with your husband for as long as you like.*

The end.

*Not counting the baby, who will likely still be awake and wallering. Beggars can't be choosers.

Time management, recommended

Some people have Franklin Planner-type brains, and can manage their schedules by nature. Some people can afford Franklin Planners, and manage their schedules by will. And then, there's the rest of us.

work less; get more done!

I used to be better about remembering things. Back in college, I didn't use a planner at all. When I was teaching high school, I made do with a dry erase marker board, the "month-at-a-glance" kind. When I took up space in an office building, I had Outlook ping me a few days before something needed done. And when I graduated to Home Management, I kept track of this and that on Post-It notes.

But now I'm four kids into this gig. My Post-Its are all covered in breakfast cereal, Outlook is in the basement, and someone ran over my dry erase board with his tricycle. All that, and I'm getting soggy around the hippocampus: A couple of months ago, I forgot all about the Ladies Aid summer picnic. I was supposed to take the potato salad. I don't know which level of Hell I'm destined for, but it's sure to be filled with mosquitoes and empty ketchup bottles.

Don't let it happen to you. Do what I did and should have done ages ago: Get one of these.

I really like mine. The number one selling point of the BusyBodyBook around here is its columns. I keep my tasks in the first column, my two homeschool-aged kids' tasks in the second and third, and Dad's schedule, insofar as it impacts me, in the fourth. Column five is for meal planning. Ta da! It's almost too easy. I mean, I haven't forgotten anything of any real consequence in weeks!

Plus, it's bound with plastic covers--very good at repelling milk. And mimosas.

Homeschooling 101

1. Obtain child.

2. Force child to spend its first seven years working moderately hard learning to read, figure, write, and think. Obtain more children in the meantime.

3. Sit back and watch as oldest child takes over its own education and that of its siblings.

4. Drink mimosas and blog.*

"You may not have Mother's treat. Now go teach little Billy something."

This is a really sweet gig, ladies. Highly recommended.

*Again, Gauntlets does not really drink that many mimosas. They are too expensive. She drinks cheap wine, instead.

Planning for the future: an anger management moment in the works

We're not officially homeschooling just yet, so I'm not frothingly mad just yet, but doing next year's taxes might put me over the edge. Because I happened to notice in the un-fine print of our adoptive state's tax instructions that the "Tuition and Textbook Credit" cannot be taken for "textbooks or other items for home schooling, tutoring, or schooling outside an accredited school."

But the credit can be taken, if the dependents in question are attending an "accredited school," for "...extracurricular activities: sporting events, speech activities, music or dramatic events, driver's education (if paid to a school), awards banquets, homecoming, prom (clothing does not qualify), and other school related social events, etc."

For a tax-related governmental publication, this seems unusually clear: Homer and Shakespeare, if taught at home, do not qualify for an educational tax credit, whereas prom does. Prom. Freakin' prom.

Good to hear

The Rebellious Pastor's wife has posted a warm narrative on the infamous topic of homeschoolers and socialization.

I particularly enjoyed her musings because, when I recently mentioned the possibility of homeschooling our oldest, the other party in the conversation immediately threw "what about socialization?!" at me. This was one of my very first real conversations about homeschooling...I can only imagine that those of you who've been at this for awhile grow rather weary of that knee-jerk "concern." So thanks to RPW for presenting such a positive perspective on community (and such an admirable way to obtain suitable spouses for one's children :) ).

"I'm so glad that school's finally starting again!"

I could take the annoying, moralizing high road here and pretend that I’m appalled by this frequently-heard sentiment, especially since most of the moms I’ve been hearing this from work outside the home, so they’re not even around their kids 24/7 during school breaks.

Or, I could admit that I’m rather terrified to contemplate a possible future of being perpetually and indefinitely in the company of my offspring. BoyOne will be having a Preschool Experience outside the home this year, but given our location and situation, we’re looking at starting homeschooling next year—another item on my lifelong list of “nevers” that it looks like I’ll have to eat. (Note to self: Stop telling God what I will and won’t do with “my” life, and start listening and obeying instead.) If every mom I talk to is going out of her mind by the end of August and desperately awaiting the reappearance of that big yellow bus, what hope is there for my sanity when “back-to-school” only means more of each other’s company?

I know, I know: homeschooling will be wonderful, I'll never regret it, etc., etc. And after all, there wasn’t much hope for my sanity in any case :P