Last year this time I used a lot of trees worth of index cards and loose leaf paper crazy planning for our school year ahead. It was our first year of homeschool and I wanted to rock it. I literally tried to map out how many minutes of each subject, each day, for each kid we would need to accomplish to meet the requirements set forth by the state of Ohio.
I had looked forward to this day all week. My oldest, a thirteen year old gentle giant at 6’2″ with a size 16 shoe, had been gone at basketball camp all week. My youngest and I were out gathering groceries, preparing for a homecoming meal (okay, it was pizza) when my phone rang. It was number one. Pickup time. Turns out that pickup time was four hours earlier than I had planned, and I wasn’t there. Forgetting a kid somewhere is jut the worst feeling as a mom, and probably not a great feeling for a kid either. I was not nailing this motherhood thing.
Last year this time there were boxes of books arriving at my door. Not just any books, but curriculum. Books a person would only order if they were planning to hijack their children’s education and take it into their own hands. Research had been done, questions had been asked, books had been read, reread, dutifully highlighted and flagged. Only those closest to my family knew we were even considering withdrawing our four kids from school and homeschooling. Even though hundreds of dollars of books were being dropped at my door it was hard to make the commitment out loud. I talked around it, mumbled, and acted like it was just this weird thing we thought about for five minutes. Nope, we were doing it. For real.
There are worse things than weird. Once upon time our family joked about weird homeschoolers. When my kids complained too much about public school I teasingly offered to keep them home with me and teach them at the kitchen table. Just the two of us, all day, every day, I would say. Doesn’t that sound like fun?