Author: staceydh

It goes without saying, that “adulting” (as I like to call it) is a big old load of responsibility. When I was a little girl I would wave to my mom as I headed to the bus stop- she would be in her robe, clutching a coffee cup that said “Do not disturb, in the process of waking up.” I never really understood what the cup meant but I was so envious of her still being in her robe. Off I went, dragging along my backpack and “Trapper Keeper” while my mom did….what? I couldn’t imagine. Her days were totally up to her. All of her kids off to school and she could lounge about, watching reruns of “Bewitched” and “The Price is Right”. I can only recall those two as that was what you watched if you were home sick from school.

Now that I am a mother myself, I laugh at what I thought my mom did compared to what she actually did. I must have lived with the illusion of a Grocery Fairy, Cleaning Fairy, Carpool Fairy, Lunch Packing Fairy. Now that I have my own children, I know that by the time that yellow bus pulled up, my mom had already been hard at work for hours- and that doesn’t take into account the hours of worrying she did overnight. So if she sat for an hour and sipped a second, third, forth…cup of coffee and watched an hour of television, I am glad.

It’s perhaps one of those things they don’t show you enough in those old “after school specials” how much effort goes into “adulting” and because this is from my own perspective, I will include “momming” under that umbrella. I am not complaining (disclaimer…I do adore my children and am thankful for the ability to care for them) but let’s be honest, it is an almost endless list of things to do, hearts to mend, disputes to referee, meals to cook, noses to wipe, appointments to keep, stories to hear, stories to tell, lessons to teach, lessons to learn.

My family loves Disneyland. It is our favorite place to go together. For many years as my kids were little, my vacations were like business trips. I can (without even trying very hard), tell you every single place to breastfeed and change a diaper while you are there. I can tell you which bathroom stalls hold a stroller and I can tell you which rides are long enough to nurse and get a tiny baby to sleep on. I could pack a diaper bag that could probably sustain life on a deserted island for weeks. Wipes and hand sanitizer, snacks and water. Headache medicine, motion sickness tabs, sunscreen, chapstick… And I would put a baby in the front pack, a toddler in the stroller and strap that diaper bag on like I was going into battle.

So imagine the day my husband said I should actually ride something. Not just any something, a roller coaster. What was he thinking? Who would care for the babies? Who would carry the bag? Who could push that stroller? The oldest wanted to ride something adventurous so I would still be doing my job if I took him, right? The whole time we zigzagged through the line I watched my hubby sitting on a bench, diaper bag, stroller, sunscreen. We climbed into this ride and my son had to sit in his own row ahead of me. We were seat belted in and I could only reach his shoulder. As the coaster lurched forward and we were off, I was panic stricken. What if something happened to him? What if his seatbelt became loose? What if he didn’t actually keep his hands and feet inside the car at all times? What if a rogue seagull broke loose from it’s pack and flew into his face? What if we derailed? What if that cotton candy was a horrible choice before this? What if he was scared? I couldn’t do anything. I felt a little sick the first few turns. Then we emerged from a dark tunnel and I could hear his laughter. And I smiled a little bit. The faster we moved, I eased my very tight grip on my fear and I peered out over the park. I could see so much and I thought of how we were held onto this ride with just a steel tube track under us. And I felt so alive. I closed my eyes and let the wind pull my face into a smile. We careened through corners and up and down hills and I was totally free. Even if I wanted to, in that moment, the only person I had to be responsible for, was me.

As my kids have grown, so have the thrill rides. We used to promise them that something wouldn’t be too fast or too scary, but now- just like life- we just promise to ride it out with them.

So now that my husband gets motion sickness on most rides, I have taken on the roller coasters. I let him think it’s for him. And a small part is. But there is something to be said about the wind hitting you so hard you can’t catch your breath and the force of nature pushing and pulling you out of your seat that reminds us of that deep and primal desire to feel really free.

When T went on his first really big roller coaster (the real deal upside down loop variety) I was with him. This particular roller coaster starts out with a slow corner as you leave the station and then catapults you down a straightaway and up a hill. As we were all strapped in and leaving the station, his little hand grabbed onto the overhead restraints and said “Mom, I am too scared, I don’t want to do this.” It was too late. We were moments from blast off. I said “Buddy, I’m scared too, but it’s too late. Hold my hand and put your head back and scream if you need to!”

Who would have thought that a roller coaster could offer such advice for life?

When T was kindy aged, we went on a road trip to California. My husband and I packed up the RV and our kids and hit the open road. We made some stops and saw some sights while we were on our way to our destination. It was September and the air was still glowing warm from summer but the cooler breeze was suggesting fall was on it’s way.

I am someone who has a requisite amount of wanderlust. I think I caught it from my Grandma. She was an absolute spark plug of a woman. It was incredible that so much personality fit into her barely 5 foot frame. She was an immigrant from Canada but would yell at us in Hungarian. I barely remember a vacation as a child that she didn’t accompany my family on. I have the best memories of our station wagon pulling up in front of the house she and my Grandpa lived in on the first morning of a trip. The only light on in the house was a lamp next to the telephone whose cord corkscrewed to the floor. They would carry out their suitcases and we would pile into the car. It was magic. Grandma would sit in the middle seat and feed us little lifesaver candies that usually had kleenex remnants stuck to them. When we ran out of those, she would give us cough drops, not the cherry lozenges- the menthol ones that she said kept her bronchitis calm when the air conditioner bothered her. One of my absolute favorites though- was when we drove at night. She would sing the same song about the moon- over and over- it became the lullaby of my childhood. I would rest my head on the shoulder of her soft pink cardigan clad shoulder and watch the moon chasing our car along winding, lonely roads. It is easy to put myself back in the moment, even now.

So naturally, I wanted to create experiences like this with my own kids. So, this one trip in particular, the one I mentioned before my memory banks opened and spilled their dividends of my childhood with you…….we had been driving for hours and were delighted to stumble upon an “In and Out Burger”. The hubs went to grab our box filled with all things a burger should be, while I stayed in the RV with the kids. Baby sister was happy playing in her carseat and I decided that it was a perfect moment to don my teacher hat.

Indulge me for a moment. The dialogue isn’t exact but this is an accurate depiction of what transpired between T and I.

Mother/teacher opens phonics book to page one and begins explaining the sound “a”.

T: That’s a huge tree.

Me: Where do you see a tree, that is an apple. A a a a apple. Say it with me.

T: What kind of tree is that? Are those acorns?

Me: Oh! A a a a a acorns. Very good. (I’m feeling pleased, clearly I am very good at teaching and my child is a genius)

T: Do birds eat the acorns?

Teacher/ Mother looks confused. Searches page for birds.

Me: B b b b b birds! Yes, tomorrow. We can talk about B b b b birds tomorrow. Today is A a a a a a apple.

T: (now pointing out of the window) Can we go collect some acorns?

Me: (Now seeing the gigantic Oak tree we are parked next to) No. We are doing our school work. We cannot go collecting acorns. This is learning time.

T: I want to learn about trees.

Me: T t t t trees. Yes, yes, we will.

T: I want to see what is inside and acorn.

Me: Look at this book.

T: I need to go outside and find some acorns.

Me: If we get our work done, we can.

T is now looking everywhere except at his phonics book. His cheeks are red and he looks sad. I try to go on. He won’t even look in my direction- he instead is studying the immense arm like branches coming off of the trunk of this tree like an octopus. Hubs is returning from his adventure into “In and Out” and is balancing T’s chocolate shake on top of his french fries. He hands T the shake.

Me: He can’t have that shake yet. He won’t do his work.

Hubs: (Clearly wondering what has happened since he was out foraging and he kind of holds the milkshake in some sort of purgatory between T and I) T do you need to finish something first. (I nod my approval)

My child needed to understand that if we were going to homeschool, I was his teacher in that moment, not just his mom. His mom would have given him that milkshake and let him climb a tree and collect acorns to his heart’s desire. But teachers were different. They hold you accountable. No work. No recess. But something else was happening in that moment. I wanted both. I desparately wanted to be his mom. My heart ached to grab his hand and go learn about acorns. But there were workbook pages needing attention! People would know that I had blown off lesson number one for burgers and milkshakes under a tree.

T: Mom won’t let me learn.

Hubs: Mom said you wouldn’t do your work.

T: Because I wanted to learn.

Hubs: To learn you have to do the work.

Me: (Now salivating like one of Pavlov’s pups over the smell of my long long awaited cheeseburger) Maybe we need a lunch break.

So Hub’s takes T outside and they sit under the tree eating fries and milkshakes and I watched through the window- which became a symbol for the whole exchange. How could I be both people? How could I be his teacher and his mom? How could he learn if he wouldn’t do the work? I couldn’t and he couldn’t. I can only be his mom. But I can be his mom that also campaigns for his interests. I can be a mom that protects his passions and makes them my own by learning from him. I can be the mom who helps him carve his space in the world so that like that oak tree, his roots are strong and his arms can stretch out and grow where ever those fibers take him.

And that brings me to the lesson I should have started with L l l l love.

That’s how I would get there.

There are days in our house where the kids come to the kitchen table and they are in their cozy clothes, sometimes pajamas. Where we live, the seasons are clearly marked by rainfall and windchill and early darkness. When we first started our homeschool journey, we got dressed, and we had our oldest get dressed for the day. Note that I said, “when we started.” You know that whole “Choose your Battles” thought? Well, we have chosen to not make that a battle here. Sometimes I too like the luxury of lounging in my pajama pants (my husband calls them my uniform) until lunch. Some families find that staying in pajamas is an obstacle to getting into a mindset for learning. To them I say, “Great! Get dressed! Do your program!” I suppose we have grown accustomed to cozy clothes life because now if I have jeans on before 9 a.m. everyone is suspect that we have a dentist appointment.

Anyway, that was a sidebar and perhaps another entry for another day. There are days where the rain is splashing into its own puddles outside and I am sipping tea and the kids are totally engaged in their learning. Thoughtful questions leading down rabbit holes of great discovery. Days where we start the day learning about a different culture and end the day preparing food from that region. Days where my seven year old grabs a huge stack of wooden craft sticks and some glue and builds. What start like tiny cabins morph into a cave that he then begins to tell me a story about. Those moments where I actually feel like I can see those dendrites firing around his remarkable brain. Where I am smiling inside at our choice to homeschool. Where I am overwhelmed with an abundance of warmth and confidence and little craft stick masterpieces. And all in the world, at least under my roof, feels okay.

There are also days where the toast is burned. The coffee is weak. The house is too hot. The house is too cold. Days where my plans are unhinged by kids who aren’t feeling the lesson the way I thought they would. Days where the interest wasn’t there, and if I am being totally honest- sometimes on both of our ends. Days where I find myself bargaining with young children about getting one more page of “work” done. Days where the quantity of work feels more important than the quality. It was how I learned. Workbook pages and tests to turn in and homework pages validated with tiny foil star stickers. Days where I have literally laid on the floor of my kitchen both my child and myself close to tears. Those days are part of homeschool too. We learn more about patience. We learn more about compassion. We learn more about learning. And I have learned, with time and a lot more experience, that one day isn’t all days. And one week isn’t all weeks and even one whole school year isn’t all of life. It is okay that they aren’t all craft stick days. But they are all learning days.

When this idea of homeschool first entered our conversation, I couldn’t wrap my head around what that would look like, my husband and I had both gone to public school and what is familiar is often what we teach- for better or worse. My brain began to fill in the blanks, in the somewhat annoying way that it does- before I have all of the information.

I imagined a sweet little space in my house with adorable seasonally themed borders and calendars and inspirational posters. (Remember that cat dangling from a tree poster? The one that said something like “Hang On!”) I would have a little table to sit at as my children diligently scribbled in wide ruled notebooks with sharp yellow pencils, the smell of creativity that a new box of crayons brings filling the air. Soft pillows for leaning into during story times and tidy little shelves full of math supplies and wooden puzzles. I also felt like budgeting for this sacred little one room schoolhouse could be liberal- after all- it benefits the family. Who was I to put a financial cap of the decor…ahem…. supplies needed to inspire a house full of eager learners?

Fast forward. The little room never happened. I learned that for us, homeschool would happen all over the place. Confinement to one room of our house was not in fact the plan. Learning as it turns out, happens where ever we are open to it. Sometimes it’s math in the kitchen and science in the backyard, sometimes it’s reading in the hot tub and social studies while sitting in front of the fire. Sometimes it’s all at the kitchen table- sometimes it’s all on the living room rug. As many of us have moved into an era of working and learning at home- perhaps you too have found the need to have a more mobile space as well. Sometimes it reinvigorates us all to move from room to room after a subject. Sometimes we are all cozy and stay covered up on the bench around our table.

The locale of our learning though, isn’t the only thing that is different than what I expected. I didn’t know anyone who was choosing to homeschool. I had zero framework to study. Perhaps that helped me find my style. At first we belonged to a program within the public school system where parents partnered with the school to homeschool. Children could go to take classes in either an A-la-carte system where they only took electives or they could go into combo aged classes a few times a week for various subjects more like the conventional model. Some kids did both. The first day, much to my immense surprise, the families looked a lot like ours. My visions of wagon trains with hoop skirted, butter churning women quickly dissolved into minivans and backpacks and cases with musical instruments. The parents were very involved in the program and had commitments of volunteer time. (Although I did find myself intrigued by the more edgy Mom that offered a buy out option on her volunteer time at parent’s information night. I held back a smile when some of the other parents smirked in disapproval) I began to realize that homeschool was just another way of living life-not limited to any one type of person.

For the record, we actually have churned butter quite a few times- turns out to be not only a handy demonstration for history but science as well…and I really love when our subjects weave into each other-just like real life. I don’t own any hoop skirts but my daughter did go through a vacation wearing a bonnet- as she was really into a “Little House on the Prairie” phase.

And with all things new- it took some time to figure out where we would fit in this new world. There were times when I would hear people say about us, “They homeschool” and it was a description- like they live in a yellow house or they drive a moped ( We don’t in fact drive a moped, we would need six and the younger children are questionable on the road). Then there where the others who somewhat nervously said, “They homeschool?” with a question at the end- and it was with curiosity like they too were surprised that I didn’t drive a horse and buggy. Then there was the third way people said it. One eyebrow raised, lips pursed and tone loaded with judgement, “They homeschool.” And that was not a description or a question, it was an accusation. (These are often the people that quiz my kids on multiplication and parts of speech but more on this later.) Throughout this time, the way people have said “They homeschool” has made me feel different ways- and over the course of that time, I too have gone from an unsure whisper to now a more solid Mother Bear sort of voice when I say it.

Takeaway points, don’t spend too much on homeschool decor (unless you want to), churning butter could also count as P.E. (which means it covers three subjects) and worry less about how other people say “They homeschool”, because the way your voice sounds when you say it, is the only one your kids will really hear.

About a year ago, my family all fell sick with some nasty zombie virus. Fevers, sore throats, nausea…it was amazing. One of my dear friend’s made a porch drop of supplies for us. One of the items included in the bag was a small container of purple sorbet. When my sick kids went to bed that night, I crept down to the kitchen for the sorbet. It was so delicious. After days of applesauce and saltines, my taste buds leaped in jubilation.

Fast forward to now. Several times I have gone to the store and seen the same flavor of sorbet staring at me from behind the clear glass doors in the freezer section. And each time, I pause, I check the tag to see if it is on sale and after seeing it’s not, I walk on.

It is not that I cannot afford the sorbet. It’s that I won’t buy the sorbet.

When my husband works late or is up early (or just feels like it) he buys a $6 cup of coffee, even though we have coffee at home. When T wants a new shirt, I make sure it happens. When my daughter, E, wants some extra fine tipped paintbrushes, I dash to the craft store. Someone wants dessert, someone wants mashed potatoes, someone wants smoked turkey for their sandwich. And whenever I can, I oblige. It’s not just purchases. One child wants to play a board game, one child wants to build a Lego set, one child wants to go for a walk. Sometimes I say no. Sometimes it doesn’t work out. Mostly though, their requests are fairly simple and not extravagant and I am happy to share of my time and resources.

So I stand in the store, waiting for my husband to catch up, and there it is, in all of it’s purple glory…..slowly I extend my hand and grab onto the handle and begin to pull open the door. The whoosh of cold air blasts past me and fogs my glasses and the glass door. I look again, $4.99. I let go of the door and it slams shut. I try to see through my glasses and the now fogged door and can still make out the outline of the sorbet.

“Why would I buy this?” “I’m the only one who will like it!” “I could spend that money on something everyone will enjoy!”

But something is different that day. I open the door again, this time with authority. I grab the sorbet and I toss it into the cart like it’s been cooled by dry ice. Like if I hold it for too long it will bite me- or worse yet- convince me to change my mind. My husband is now near me and I blurt out “I’m buying the sorbet.” He looks back at me, puzzled, and in that moment I’m WAY trying to read between the lines. My hand goes to pull that perfectly purple container out of my cart. Then I stop. Then I wonder, why.

“Why wouldn’t I buy this?” “I’m the only one who will like it!” (This time realizing the potential of this discovery). And mostly I wonder…. “Why am I not included in buying something I will enjoy?”

Truth is, it’s a lie I tell myself. And friends, I wonder if you do too. Our worth is not measured solely by what we do for others, that is our worth to them. What we should really be concerned with is our self worth…. and our self worth should be immeasurable.

Buy the sorbet. And celebrate yourself in the goodness of each bite.

My husband bought me an electric toothbrush for Christmas last year. It is a sure sign of adulthood- the excitement I felt as I unwrapped this package and realized the contents. The box was sleek, and white with blue lettering. I ran to the bathroom to plug the base into the wall and set the toothbrush itself onto the charging station. I couldn’t wait for it to charge so I somewhat impatiently pushed the power button, nothing, no charge. So I set it back down, distracted myself by reading the back of a shampoo bottle for at least thirty seconds, tried again, still nothing. So I left the bathroom but hurriedly checked it again as soon as I could, let me tell you, worth the wait.

Perhaps if this was the blog my dentist wrote, this would be it. Maybe the title would have been “Toothbrushes Make Great Gifts”, my excitement being a perfect example. Alas, I am no dentist. To all concerned, loose teeth actually make me weak in the knees and many times my own children have sent me from the room, my insides feeling like jelly, as they have twisted and tugged on loose baby teeth. I am even cringing as I type this, just thinking of those moments.

Anyway, after using this amazing toothbrush twice a day for a couple weeks, something happened. One night as I pushed the power button, it was different. There was a little delay in the bristles spinning. But I went about my two minutes without concern. Next morning, same thing happens, but again, I go on. That night though as I pushed the power button, my toothbrush only beeped. When I first heard the three beeps they sounded kind of sad. The next time they sounded almost angry and my toothbrush wouldn’t do anything else! I read the manual, I looked at the warranty, I tried to find the flaw that could make my toothbrush refuse to continue going.

I tracked the power cord from the base where the toothbrush charged to the wall outlet. It was unplugged. Imagine me relief when all my toothbrush needed was to be plugged back in. After some downtime, the beeps were gone and she was up and running. A few times now this has happened. Sometimes I feel like I see the world differently than others. Almost like my brain is caught in some sort of magical realism where the mundane seems more extraordinary and things like toothbrushes connect me to a bigger picture.

When T was born, I struggled with Postpartum Depression. More on that later. One of the things I remember so clearly, was the incredible therapist that helped me through this transition, asking me if I had brushed my teeth that day. I began rummaging around the diaper bag for some gum or a leftover mint, because in that moment I realized I had not brushed my teeth in some time. “Moms with newborns don’t have time for that” I tried to explain. Wasn’t she a professional? Didn’t she know this? I had bought into this belief that self sacrifice made me a good mom, self care did not. Not resting, not showering, not eating nourishing food, were sure signs that I was sacrificing enough. We don’t support new parents in our culture. Having a newborn is more like a period of hazing- like we are needing to walk through fire to prove our worthiness of membership in the club. We let women nurse until their nipples bleed- telling them to “tough it out” . (PLEASE know that bleeding nipples are not necessary and are actually a sign that support is absolutely imperative.) We pressure the importance of getting back to work, back to the gym, back to the jeans worn pre-pregnancy. The other parent is often expected to adjust to this new role without complication or hesitation. Our culture screams two things at once… “When are you having a baby? AND “Get back to normal!” Having a baby changes every “normal” you ever had, but isn’t this the idea?

Maggie was her name, this therapist/ saint, that asked me if I brushed my teeth. She explained that brushing your teeth was a very small segment of the day to dedicate to self care. It was a building block to more. Today we brush, tomorrow we incorporate that shower, eventually a nap or a new book or a walk alone.

So one night when my toothbrush emitted it’s three little beeps, telling me it needed a recharge, I rolled my eyes. I did, I rolled my eyes at this toothbrush. How dare this toothbrush demand a break? How could this thing that was an integral part of my life just ask for time off to recharge? Yet it did. I stood in the mirror. I looked at the woman looking back, the beauty industry would say she had dark, puffy eyes, wrinkles like wings coming from her the corners of her eyes, dry patches of skin….instead of hearing the voices of people I didn’t know, I heard the voice of someone I actually knew well. And her voice sounded like mine. She told me she was tired. She told me it had been a day. She told me her battery was needing a recharge. Beep. Beep. Beep. She told me to climb back in my base, plug back in and fill back up.

It seems that my toothbrush and I are on the same cycle of needing a recharge. When her battery is depleted, we both get set down. She in her charging station, me on the floor of the bathroom. I read for a few minutes, give myself a facial, paint my toenails, sometimes I just breathe.

When she asks for a break, I no longer judge her, I just give her what she needs until we are both up and spinning again.

Beep, beep, beep. Not a sign of weakness, a sign of greatness waiting to be had.

When I think about it, following my gut has been a part of how I have always lived. I had a wonderful teacher in kindergarten. She was kind and soft spoken, she wore long floral skirts and sandals. Our room number was 17 and we had a class pet- a turtle named Ricky. I liked Kindergarten and my mom tells the story of wanting to walk me to the classroom the first day of school and I was bothered that she wouldn’t let me go alone. Each Friday, after snack and before a story, Miss K would pass out tiny paper cups of liquid flouride for us to take. I did not like this. I did not like that I felt like my teacher was handing out “medicine”. One Friday at recess, I told the other kids in my class that I would not be taking the flouride that day. I encouraged them to do the same. The plan was simple, when it was time to sip from our little paper cups, we would just quietly set down our cups and walk out to the monkey bars instead. I remember a dark haired boy asking me “Won’t we get in trouble?’ I said “Probably, but we won’t have to take our flouride.”

Imagine my surprise and delight when my plan was set into motion and a group of kindergarten students walked quietly to the monkey bars. Miss K came out and asked whose idea this was. Several fingers pointed my way. I was sent to the principal’s office. They struck up a plea deal that I could return to school if I didn’t have to take the flouride but would just pretend to do it when the other kids did. I didn’t love this plan but expulsion seemed a bit extreme.

From the time our oldest child and first son was old enough to talk, he formed strong opinions about how things should be as well. He always was, and still is, very gentle in the world. He had a sensitivity that I felt so appreciative to be able to nurture and I wanted to give him the skills to nurture that quality in himself as well. Unfortunately, our culture puts a lot of emphasis on “classic” (but now referred to as toxic) masculinity. The “Oxford American Dictionary” defines masculinity as : “qualities or attributes regarded as characteristic of men. ” That is fine, albeit vague. Our friends at Oxford define man like this, “an adult human male”. For some reason we live in a culture that likes to label. “Mama’s Boy and Daddy’s Girl” are descriptors handed to children from infancy. There seems to be a positive connotation with a young girl who views her dad with a halo- the opposite is true though with the descriptor, “Mama’s Boy”. These children are often viewed as “softer” in the world, as if that is a negative. If we look back to our definition of masculinity, it is interesting that displaying adult like behavior is not only expected of young boys, it is celebrated -whereas girls are often met with sadness as they grow older. I remember the first time someone referred to him as a “Mama’s Boy”. It didn’t feel good and although T was too young to understand those words, I felt the sting of a culture being set in assigning blame or fault in children who didn’t “fit” the expectations of others. T would cover his eyes when he saw and animal dead on the road. He cried with deep sadness when things were over; Christmas, vacation, visits with family. He also created very loving connections with people around him, choosing quality time over anything else. These things are part of his make up and aspects of his person that we still treasure in him.

When he was about three I had roasted a chicken for dinner. I remember him staring at the roasted chicken in the middle of the table. “Who killed it?” he asked. “I am not sure.” I responded. “Do you think the chicken had a happy life?” he asked. “Ummm, maybe.” I answered, with great uncertainty. “Why do we get to kill things to eat?” This one I thought I had an answer for. “Well, chicken is a good source of protein.” There it was, a solid response to his question. He couldn’t argue with that. He gently slid his small dump truck plate to the seat next to him. “I can’t eat this.” The next few year, he didn’t touch meat…..unless it was a chicken in some sort of breaded form. Somehow that worked for him still. Friends laughed at me. They kept telling me that he was “in charge” and “didn’t know what he needed”. We learned a lot about alternative sources of protein those years. That is what I could do. What I couldn’t do was question my child’s objections to eating meat, he had been quite clear.

One rainy day we were crossing a busy road. T was wearing a yellow firefighter raincoat that he adored and green dinosaur rainboots. Halfway across, with a car waiting for us, T stopped. “Mama! There is a worm. We can’t leave it. It will get run over or dried out!” I gently tugged on his little hand, trying to pretend I didn’t hear him. His younger sister was in the baby sling, diaper bag on my back, shopping bags in my hand, rain falling hard on all of us. But he wouldn’t move, not an inch. “Mama! Did you hear me, we HAVE to save this worm.” I looked down at his brown curls as he was watching a worm wriggling around in a puddle. “Okay Buddy, let’s save the worm.” I reached down and scooped the worm up and carried it to the other side of the road.

T was happy and watched the worm slide into the earth under some hedges. The driver of the car rolled his passenger window down.

“Hey, did your kid just ask you to pick up a worm from the middle of the road?”

I was instantly on guard, my eyes widening as if they could scare off a predator.

“Yes, yes he did.” I answered triumphantly.

The man smiled and said “Don’t let anything or anyone change that about him.”

That night, my husband and I googled, “How to homeschool.”

When I was growing up the two things I loved playing the most were school and midwife. I would line my dolls up to sit through daily lessons, where I would write in pastel colored chalk while balancing on a pair of my mom’s red pumps, pretending my name was Michelle. If it was midwife time, I would carefully place balled up paper towels into a Barbie dress so she looked pregnant and could have a baby. Barbie has come a long way- because when I was a child, there were not Barbie babies- so I improvised and used my brother’s GI Joe action figures instead. People said to me, “You should be a teacher.” Secretly I wanted to be a midwife more than a teacher, but perhaps they saw something in me that I didn’t, so perhaps they were right. So I decided that steering myself towards Liberal Arts was a good idea- but inside, I had a burning desire to be around all things pregnant. I went to my first birth workshop when I was nineteen and I was alive.

And people kept saying, “But you’d make a good teacher”.

As my oldest was approaching five, I felt a pang of anxiety when the sign in our small town began to advertise “Kindergarten Roundup”. It wasn’t like I was nervous to be away from him (although that is a valid feeling for sure) or that he wouldn’t be okay without his dad or I with him. It was this other overwhelming feeling- sometimes waking me from the most sound sleep, whispering it’s way into my thoughts. I tried to shove it down. It’s what happens. You have a baby, they grow, they turn five and they get on the bus. You pack lunches and walk to the bus stop and wave goodbye. We visited the school. The whisper got louder. We got a registration packet. The whisper got louder. We spoke to the teacher. The whisper was not a whisper anymore- it was a voice. We started the process of signing up and the voice was now a yell. So we looked at a private school. Maybe this particular public school wasn’t for us. The yell didn’t care- apparently, it didn’t like private school either. My husband said it first, “Why don’t we just homeschool?” I wish there were the words to describe my scoffs and sighs and gasps at this notion. I went to bed that night and fell asleep thinking about his seemingly absurd solution. Weird thing was- the voice was quiet.

I was standing in my mom’s backyard when I told her we were going to try homeschooling her grandson. My forehead scrunched up, my volume barely audible- I think on the outside she tried to look confident. Inside though, she was probably making some sounds herself! I was unsure of how we were going to do this- but I wasn’t unsure that we would. Besides, hadn’t people been telling me that I would be a good teacher? I have a strong feeling now that this wasn’t what they meant.