Fear factor

I'm in the middle of school planning for the year ahead. So many choices, so many options, so many bases to cover in the dwindling years I have left teaching Jo at home. High school--and all that it entails--is  steaming towards us. I think back on the meager beginnings of our little homeschool and wonder where all the years of making saltdough letters and counting forks and spoons out of the dishwasher have gone. In the beginning, there was a long tunnel of time stretching before us. Surely, my little girl was as grown up as she was every going to get.

Not quite.


Jo is knocking at the door of adulthood now, and while she's got several years before that call is answered, we can all feel it coming. She is nervous, excited, overwhelmed and overjoyed, all at the same time. This upcoming year will bring Sonlight's Core 200, pre-algebra, chemistry, and a host of other things that will stretch her mind, put her academic skills to the test, and probably even reduce her to tears on one or more occasions.


And yet, in the midst of my planning, it's not Jo and her high school plans that are leaving me with a dry mouth. I ought to be frightened of teaching high school. I ought to have a healthy acknowledgement of the increased responsibility. I ought to be scrambling to have a plan for records, a stable of mentors, that sort of thing. 


But what I'm really worried about is ...


Preschool.


Preschool, of all things. Preschool, which I could teach with my eyes closed at this point, assuming that I consciously taught preschool at all. Running a finger under letters as you read aloud from a favorite picture book. The right way to hold scissors. How to hop from one foot to another without losing your balance. Sharing. Singing an endless array of Bible songs. Puzzles. Counting games. 


This fall, I'm going to be fully responsible for a kind of preschool I've never really envisioned in our lives: special needs. 

After so many moments of conviction that even I couldn't deny them, it's become clear that our local public school program isn't the place for Oli. He's receiving speech and occupational therapy, yes. But the quality of those programs has diminished as the school district has struggled to reallocate funds in a drastically slashed budget. Preschoolers who with cognitive delays come after high school sports in the minds of many, and thus Oli now sits for group sessions with a therapist who must try to elicit speech sounds from six low-functioning four year-olds at a time. Her chances of succeeding are depressingly low. 


And, we realize, that continuing on the path we've started down with Oli promises basically the same returns. 


It's not just the dubious therapies. There have been other signs, as well. Oli has picked up a few quality habits that, until now, we have been blessed to never welcome inside our front door. To our horror, his ability to parrot behaviors is as keen as ever. While he may not be learning to recognize his name, he now knows what it means to shout "Kill you!" when a tussle over a toy isn't going your way.


Public school--not even public preschool--isn't a good fit for us. 


So we have made the prayerful decision to bring him home. But what does that mean?


This past year, I spent a huge chunk of time (and an equally big chunk of our homeschool budget) on Olischool.  While his classroom teacher was ostensibly in charge of leading him through the motions, here at home we did everything in our power to fill Oli's moments with opportunities for learning. Still, in the back of my mind, I knew that he was getting "real" preschool down at the school. His teacher--a certified, experienced professional--was doing the heavy lifting, I told myself. I was just filling in the gaps.


Go ahead and laugh at me for these thoughts. Go ahead and tell me that an experienced homeschooler ought to know better. I'm a big girl. I can take it. 


The illusion has been shattered. I know that I was meant to be in charge all along. Now it's time to take the bull by the horns and admit to myself that I'm certified by a higher power and called to this job. I can do it. With God's help, I can teach this boy.


This fall will find me swimming in a new pond. Not only will I have a high schooler to guide, but a special needs preschooler, as well. The stakes somehow seem high, but I've been in these situations often enough to know that a few years from now, I'll most likely look back and wonder what I was so anxious about. Hopefully, as I reminisce, Oli will be sitting beside me. Reading a book. And wondering why his Momma is laughing so hard.

Sick day

Junkies

I grew up thinking that the term "junkie" was a bad thing. To be labelled a junkie implied a life spent aimlessly courting danger and illegal substances. It meant disconnect from reality. It meant an addiction that overshadowed relationships and productivity.


Today, in homeschool culture, it's a good thing to be called a junkie. Or at least, a perfectly acceptable thing. You know what I'm talking about: the curriculum junkie.


I admit that I've used the term in reference to myself on occasion. What I meant by it was that I enjoy perusing new stuff. I like to glean new ideas. And I get excited when I see the market's needs being met in such original and creative ways.


What I didn't mean is that I have shelves groaning under the weight of programs I had tried on for size for a month or two, then pushed aside in favor of the hot new thing. I didn't mean that something new caught my eye each and every year and distracted me from the success I was already enjoying with what I was already using. I didn't mean that I plan and buy and plan and buy, but tire of those plans and purchases by the time I actually getting around to the implementation phase.


I didn't mean that I wanted a sample of every single flavor on display at the buffet table of homeschooling.


But this is what I see, increasingly, around me: people who are unable or unwilling to self-discipline themselves enough to give their children stability and consistency in their homeschooling experience.


I'm not talking about people who change things in the name of meeting a learning style, igniting a love of learning in their children, or adapting to a new season of life. Personally, we've switched programs when the needs of our kids changed. That's the beauty of homeschooling, and that's not what I mean here. I'm talking about the real junkie among us: the folks who have stuck their finger in every homeschooling pie in a search for the one perfect thing that's going to make or break their year.


As if such a thing exists.


Luke from Sonlight started a discussion on this topic on his blog yesterday, cueing me into the fact that I'm not the only one noticing this trend. So what gives? Why are we being swayed and tossed like the wind? Are there simply too many options? Are we becoming gluttons? Are we buying into the lie that there's a "right" or "best" way?


What do you think?

God's classroom

I prepared pretty well for this school year. Taking into account the fact that we'd be meeting someone brand new just as the year got really underway, I crafted my plans in such a way as to (try to) keep things simple. And it's working. Well, most of the time.


Since you don't exactly know what any particular child's temperament will be until you actually live life with them for a while, I conjured an image of the most high maintenance, time intensive infant my imagination could muster, coupled with what I already knew of Oli's very time consuming needs, with a side order of Mani's two year-old penchant for needing 110% of my attention 150% of the time. 


Assuming the worst, I figured, was only bound to lead to relief rather than frustration. Thus far, I haven't been disappointed.


It's turned out that Seven is the easiest newborn I've ever had. She may surprise me yet, of course. But so far, she contentedly sleeps an 8 hour stretch at night before waking up to nurse and then happily drifting back off for four more peaceful hours. She only naps in little one-hour snippets three times a day, but I'm not complaining. In addition to giving me plenty of nighttime rest, she's also got a sweet disposition. She's happy on anyone's lap, will grin for any and all takers, and gleefully passes time in the ergo, the bouncer, the sling, whatever. She's just ... delightful.


Mani has been less of a challenge than I'd feared during school hours, but only slightly so. Like Logan before him, Mani wants to feel involved. He will demand markers when the older kids are working on maps. He will clamor for a separate Bible story after our morning study. And, oh yes, he will remind me ever so vigorously that he likes puzzles. Lots of puzzles. And a movie, too, if you don't mind. All in all, though, this is what I expect of a toddler: a healthy appetite for being in the mix.


And then there's Oli. Unable to play on his own, he shadows Mani so closely that my younger boy has started flinching whenever he sees his big brother move toward his space. "Oli! I not playin' dat!" is the constant refrain. Oli copies Mani like a parrot. If Mani is sprawled on the floor with Rescue Heroes, lining them up and making them talk, Oli will shoulder in and grab a guy, then bounce it on the floor in imitation of what he thinks his little brother was doing. Mani has given up trying to engage Oli in his imaginative play, realizing that Oli just can't manage it. And so, Oli drifts, or pesters Mani until he shrieks, or sits on my lap trying to scribble with a pencil, or catapults himself angrily to the floor when he can't get a toy to work the way he'd like. I'll be honest: it's frustrating. It's loud. And it is constant.


And yet, I'd say this school year has been a success thus far. My planning has smoothed the way, yes ... but the real triumph has been in what we're learning in the day-to-day. I lowered the bar in terms of academic expectations, and left room for the unexpected, but opened the door for something else entirely: God's lesson plans. 


Last year, Jo read Plutarch's Lives, The Last Days of Socrates, and Herodotus' Histories. This year, she's learned how to play alphabet games with a toddler, doula for a newly post-partum mother, and manage her own schedule a bit more. She's still learning math, science, etc. But added to it are lessons in making healthy snacks, grinning at a newborn, and humbly asking younger brothers for help.


Atticus has had a crash course in patience--one area where he needed, desperately, to be stretched. Redirecting Oli, waiting his turn to do his math on the computer, and singing "Twinkle, Twinkle" ten times a day with Mani have greatly improved his ability to die to self. He's delighting in his special ability to make Seven laugh out loud. Logan has been able to develop his natural gift of nurturing by reading to Seven, cuddling with Oli, and learning to make simple lunches.


As for me, I'm trying a allow God to grow me, even as I run up and down the stairs, fold laundry, make meals, teach, and read board books. Some days, I'm not sure I've learned anything. Where was God among the diaper changes, the shouting toddlers, the surly adolescent who doesn't understand why sentences always start with capitals? Other days, I am overwhelmed with the strength He has given me, or the gifts He has poured into me that so perfectly seem to match up with the needs of my children, or the opportunities He has offered that allow me to draw closer to Him.


In this place of chaos and busy and plain old messy life, I am keenly aware that I am living, daily, in God's classroom. I could have never have scheduled a season this perfectly designed to craft my children and myself into the people He wants us to be. I'm so glad that I didn't lock the door on His gentle teachings by insisting on adhering to a timeline of structured learning. 

Investing in daughters

Jo, decorating a cake.

Jo is, quite literally, growing up before my very eyes. Not a day passes that I'm not reminded of how quickly she is leaving behind "the things of childhood" and moving into the days of young womanhood. Part of me is terrified of all this change. I have loved and adored having a little girl to walk alongside me these past few years, and the thought of leaving that behind brings my Momma heart not a small portion of grief.

But then again, the greater part of me is delighted. As the trapping of girlhood slip away--as the dolls have a chance to grow dusty on their shelves, as the toy horses come out for a frolic less and less-- the woman that I'm going to know for the rest of my life emerges, bit by bit. I have the chance to fall in love with my girl all over again.

Truly, motherhood is an amazing thing.

Sensing that this was a year that would bring many changes to all of our lives, Mr. Blandings and I sat down early this summer with a list of priorities--things we absolutely didn't want to let escape us in the hustle and bustle of life. Top among my things to purpose towards was investing in Jo's blossoming womanhood. Mr. Blandings was in full support of this, even though he had very little to contribute in the way of practical ideas. (What with not having the vaguest clue as to what it feels like to be a teenage girl and all ...) I did some research, wrote down some ideas, talked to my daughter, and came up with a plan.

Jo's main goal--aside from just having girls-only access time to me--was to learn more about cooking. She's a crack baker at this point, and adores any and all time that she gets to spend in the kitchen tinkering. She'd keen on expanding her repertoire beyond the basics, but in her own social way, would prefer to do it with a guide. I'm a much more solitary cook myself, so it takes me outside of my comfort zone to share my space and skills with someone else--something I've had to shove aside as I've committed to this journey together. If my daughter wants to learn to cook with me at her side, then you can bet I will be there, discomfort or no.

My main intent on spending time together was to purposefully impart some of the insight I've learned on the road to becoming the kind of woman I think God wants me to be. Much of this is simply taking the time to share Scripture, mentor, and ask deeper questions that will help me to stay in tune with my daughter's heart as she grows. But the ultimate goal is to help her to keep listening to God's will for her life. I know all too well that as the label "teen" is added to a child's age, society's voices can grow far louder than God's. I want to help keep the volume adjusted to the proper level, if you know what I mean.

Using these two desires as a starting point, I ended up buying Doorposts' Polished Cornerstones curriculum as a guide for what I hope will be memorable, productive, fun time together as Mother and Daughter.

It's based on Scriptural definitions of womanhood, but is also open-ended enough to be used even by those of us who don't always fit under the umbrella most often opened for our KJ-only sisters. I was pleasantly surprised to find that this character-building, life-shaping curriculum really does function as a "pick and choose" buffet for crafting meaningful times around many different learning styles and personality types. And all the while, the focus is on sharing and simply being together. How refreshing!

So far, we're off to a good start. Since the book isn't necessarily meant to be used in chronological order, I skipped ahead to the chapter on cooking as that was what Jo had expressed as her biggest interest. It took me just a few hours to go through the section, select some scripture to study together (the book offers several options for each chapter's theme, then allows the parent to choose what fits their daughter the best), and zero in on a handful of activities to pursue based on that lesson. I decided to give this chapter five weeks, with two days of study being pursued each week. I can honestly say that thus far, Jo has lit up each time she realized that it's Tuesday or Thursday--"PC day!"

From the extensive list of options, I selected those activities that seemed to be most likely to help Jo with specific skills or to delight her with a chance to show off her abilities. So far, she's gained a greater understanding of the cook's role in making sure everyone stays healthy by balancing food choices in menus, learned basic cooking terms (grill, baste, saute, fold, etc.), started her own recipe binder (just like Mom's!), and begun collecting recipes that she'd like to try her hand at. All the while, we've made time to cook together. It's been a total blessing ... to both of us.

The time I've invested in spending time with Jo will always be dear to me. Watching her joy as she assembled her own recipe binder was probably one of the highlights of my month. Seriously--to see the care she took in making labels for her dividers, thinking through how she'd like to categorize, watching as she decided what her first recipe to go in to the first page protector would be ... I was proud. I was humbled. And I was struck by what a fine young woman I had on my hands already.

I have no interest in producing a mini-me clone when it comes to raising any of my children, let alone my daughter. I am overjoyed that God created within each of them their own personalities, their own proclivities, and their own desire to walk with Him in their own way. But to be able to pause and pour into a growing, developing heart is a blessing that pays out to us as mothers a hundred fold. My Jo will not be "Mary Grace all over again." That's not the point. But hopefully she will emerge from this season stronger, more prepared, and well-loved, knowing that her father and I felt that her teen years were an important time. Not for the reasons that the world so often trumpets. But for the reasons that God outlines--that she should grow in knowledge and wisdom, so as to be an arrow for the Lord.

Want to talk about homeschooling?

For a blog that was originally supposed to be primarily about homeschooling, I sure haven't posted about that topic much lately, have I? Maybe it's summer. Maybe it's my mood. Maybe it's the overabundance of real-life schooling that keeps flowing around here. Whatever the case, I haven't said much about our school plans.Which had you worried, right? LOL!

Trust me, we're still homeschooling. This summer was a bit of a flop. Our normal approach (unit studies mixed with some math to give our days a little definition) just never fully took shape. Being pregnant, doing adoption paperwork, processing visa information, etc., took precedence. Oh, and there was that bed rest thing, too. At any rate, my kids devoured the books on architecture that Mr. Blandings so helpfully brought home from the library. We did a couple of days worth of drafting exercises, explored some of the finer examples of architecture from history, built some really cool Lego models, and moved on. All the while, we managed a handful of read-alouds and math about three times a week.

I am calling this a rousing success, despite expectations not being met. Everyone is happy, lots of summer freedom was felt, and we were all ready to settle back in to a routine at right about the same time.

I pulled together a few loose weeks of school to get us rolling during the middle of July, and was able to have a lovely kick off just before August started. I haven't had the need to sit down and schedule things out in detail for several years, since I was primarily using SL. This year has taken on a different shape, however, and I needed to be a bit more on top of planning.

Jo is continuing in her studies using Veritas' Omnibus I. We purchased this last year at her request, knowing full well that it would take her a solid 18 months to digest the heavy reading required in this course. For her part, Jo has remained committed and enthusiastic. I think we can call the experiment a success. Scheduling the Omnibus is no large task; it's broken down into manageable bits on a helpful CD, and for the most part, Jo works at her own pace. Since Omnibus covers history, literature, and more writing than I did in some of my college classes, I only have a handful of other things to schedule out for her. She studies French in the early morning hours with her Daddy twice a week, and guitar with him on the weekends. I am leading her through one last grammar review to make sure that I haven't missed anything along the way. Together, she and I are using Polished Cornerstones as a combination Bible study/life skills/home economics/mother-daughter time. She does the normal round of Latin word study, math, and Logic. She works on her own creative writing, but I may ask her if she'd like a bit more direction there this year. I will most likely leave it up to her; Nothing is worse, in my book, than having someone come in and take over a hobby and passion.

I decided to use a combination of SL Core 2 and Story of the World volume 2 for Atticus and Logan this year. They're combined there, but each has a different LA (Learning Language Arts Through Literature purple for Atticus, First Language Lessons 3 for Logan), readers, vocab, math (TT5 and Singapore 3B, respectively), and spelling (though both are in Spelling Power this year). Logan also does guitar with Daddy, and both are using Rosetta Stone Spanish.

Then there's the "together" stuff: Bible (we use the Veritas cards as a visual as we read through the Bible, along with the fantastic Victor Journey Through the Bible), science (we're starting the year with Apologia's Swimming Creatures, then doing Apologia Land Animals, then moving to God's Design for Science Chemistry around Christmas time), Greek, and art and music.

Soooo .....


After I did all the legwork of combining the eighteen million bits, it was a good weekend's worth of planning. Bed rest is helpful that way! I decided to stay with the old fashioned "on paper" schedule and used a color-coding system to allow me to use only one planning book: Jo's assignments are in red, Atticus' are in blue, Logan's are in green, and lessons we all sit in on are in black.

Part of the schedule from our very light first week back.

A couple of years ago, a friend who was finishing her homeschool journey shared a tip with me on learning to create a portfolio for high school painlessly over several years' time. In essence, you create binders at the beginning of each year, then train your children to file everything--absolutely everything--into the binders. I took her advice, and have been pleased with how thorough a record I'm able to keep simply by having access to everything in one spot.

To do this, I simply buy heavy-duty binders:Logan's Staples binder ... which will take the heaviest abuse, I promise you!

And use dividers to create filing spaces:The tabs in Atticus' binder.

At the end of the year, you'd be shocked at what those binders hold ... and how ragged they are from the constant use!


NEXT UP: My version of "preschool" ... with a special-needs 3.5 year-old!

Ordered

I sat upright at my computer today long enough to type in my curriculum order for the fall. While I feel accomplished (one more box checked off before Seven arrives!) I also feel just a tad apprehensive. Who knows what this upcoming school year will look like? Certainly not me.

I looked over my well-planned order--scenes of a sweet newborn in my arms, Manolin no longer content to play happily on the sidelines, Oli transitioning to more time at the developmental preschool, Logan hitting that "voracious reader" stage, Atticus wanting something to physically build, Jo teetering on the edge of high school, Bee quite possibly home ... this verse went through my mind:

Now listen, you who say, "Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money." Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, "If it is the Lord's will, we will live and do this or that." --James 4:13-15

And that, I think, is something to keep in mind when planning a school year. You have no idea what will happen tomorrow, let alone next spring. Your kindergartner could learn to read. Or she could decide to spend an entire year perfecting her princess ballerina routine. You could love the science curriculum you bought. Or it could be a massive flop. Your homeschool could hit history daily ... or only manage it once every two weeks. Strap yourself in, enjoy the ride ... and if it's God's will, your plans might just come to fruition.

I get questions ...

After getting duplicates of several questions via email, I thought I'd post the answers here in case anyone was pondering the same things. Also, if you have a question you think I might possibly have an answer to (keeping in mind that I never said I was an expert on anything), then post it here ... you never know ... I might just answer!

Are you planning on adopting more kids?

Ah, good question. One that I know my mother-in-law would like answered definitively, that's for sure! The present answer is that there's nothing in the works at this time. With a court date for Oliver and one being set for Manolin, we'll be turning our attention to getting Bee's visa. From there, who knows? We are at capacity for foster care with 6 kids in our home 13 or under. We could get a special dispensation for a sibling placement, but since no sibs are currently forthcoming, that's not something we're thinking about. We have opted to keep our foster license, however.

If you had to go back and start all over (meaning: with your first placement) would you still adopt from foster care?

You haven't seen pictures of my little boys yet, so I can forgive you for asking this one! :-) The answer is YES. Two and a half years is a small price to pay for the life and love of a child.

Are you rich?

Depends on who you're asking. The truth is that if my older kids were in school, we'd qualify for reduced price lunches. However--we have found God to always be amazingly faithful in providing for our needs. On Mr. Blandings' salary, we are able to feed and clothe our entire family, keep a roof over our heads that is "small" by US standards but enormous by the standards of the rest of the world, and support work that expands God's Kingdom. Oh, and we have fun, too. I think that qualifies us as rich, don't you?


Are you one of those up at 5 a.m. moms?

Hardly. The truth is, I love to sleep. I do it well. I do it often. And I do it for longer stretches than the average momma! I am generally in bed by 9:30 p.m., listening to the sweet sound of my husband doing our nightly Bible reading. I conk out pretty quickly though, so my morning Bible reading is actually a repeat of what Mr. Blandings read the night before! And when does that morning reading take place? No earlier than 6:30 a.m., guaranteed.

Is your husband really on board with having all of those kids? My husband won't budge on having more than 2/3/4.

My husband wasn't always thrilled at the prospect of a large family; truth be told, it wasn't my idea of a good time, either. Like most things in the Christian walk, God slowly worked on both of our hearts to get us to the point where the idea of "one more" wasn't anywhere near as scary as it was on the day we said "I do." Nowadays, I can fully say that Mr. Blandings would have two dozen children if God asked him too. It'd probably be me with the slack jaw and the disbelief at the prospect!

Do you really use everything that you review?

Yes, I do. I couldn't in good conscience recommend a product that I hadn't personally tried. This is one of the reasons why I find giving verbal recommendations so hard--people will ask about things I haven't used, and I have to issue so many qualifiers about "what I've heard"!

The Homeschooling Daddy

I learned early on that consulting my husband even on things that he has no interest in whatsoever in terms of decision making makes him feel loved, involved, and valued. And when a guy is gone the biggest chunk of the day, truly--every little thing you can do to make him feel like he matters is worth the added effort. Because, as we all know, a man who feels valued is a man whose heart stays close to home and whose actions center around his family.

There have been times when I have had to grit my teeth through some moments when frankly, I didn't give a hoot what his opinion was. For example, seven years ago we moved into our current home. It was our first brand-new place. A total blank slate. White walls, no personality, and endless options. I immediately laid out my plans for decorating: lots of red, some folksy touches, a warm and cozy feel. Mr. Blandings demurred. He's not especially fond of my favorite color, and besides ... one gal's "cozy" is another man's claustrophobic. Fine, I said. Let's just start with the windows. We installed faux wood blinds that we could agree on and a vertical blind on the sliding glass door that fit his budget more than my taste. Then it was on to the pretty part. I came home with a lovely pair of Waverly valances in shades of green, yellow, blue, and red. I hung them up just before Mr. Blandings arrived home from work. When he walked in the front door, the response was less than stellar.

"Are those ... pears?" he asked, squinting.

"Yes," I answered. "It's a kind of fruit and flower theme."

"Oh. Wow. That's ... yeah ... ho boy."

I took this to mean that Mr. Blandings was not looking forward to coming home every night to the bucolic view of fresh flowers and assorted food stuff decking his windows.

Take two.

Seeing the response Mr. Blandings had had to the first set of valances, I went for a pattern. Happily, I found a gorgeous set of jabots that was anything but stuffy. They were red and yellow stripes, and from the moment I put them up, I was tickled with the way that they warmed the rooms.
Mr. Blanding was not so thrilled.

"It's like something you'd see on a boat. Or a themed restaurant maybe. Our specials tonight are shrimp scampi ..."

I resisted the urge to slug him, and I took the valances back.

Finally, by take three, I was ready to ask specifics. What colors do you want? What colors do you not want? What kind of valance do you like? Would you prefer full curtains? What, exactly, are you hoping to accomplish here?
By sitting down and verbally hashing out what each of us had in mind, I was able to find a winner. On take three, I found a winner. Red Country Life toile--my choice. Not too frilly--his choice. Contrasting fabrics--my choice. No fruit or big flowers--his choice.

If you look past the Christmas tree in this pic, you can see a corner of what we ended up with:



By looking past what I wanted, and looking toward what we wanted, a compromise was reached. And in the end, I'll tell you--I've been that much happier throughout the years, knowing that I didn't push my way to what I envisioned as perfect, but instead invested the time to feather a nest that my husband feels blessed to call his home.

Homeschooling our children has worked much the same way. While I know that the vast majority of homeschooling mothers bear the entire burden of selecting and purchasing curriculum, that hasn't been my experience. From the word go--way back when Mr. Blandings had severe doubts about his whole experiment in education ever working out--he was 50% of the choosing team. Sure, I was the one who ordered the catalog and went in search of link to email him for his perusal, but Mr. Blandings stepped up and took his job seriously. After a few years in his new role as Homeschooling Daddy, he even began scouting out ideas on his own. This had been my goal along: keep supplying him with information, and help him to invest in the choices we were making.

Lest you think that my husband has nothing else to do in his spare time, I assure you ... you couldn't be farther off base. Mr. Blandings typically leaves the house at 7:15 a.m. and is rarely home before 6:45 p.m. Outside of his day job, he has plenty of other callings that eat up precious hours. Every weekend, he squeezes in as much kiddo time as he can muster. No one could blame him for passing the buck on choosing homeschool materials to his wife. After all, he's busy. Busy with worthy stuff.

But, he will quickly tell you, there is nothing more pressing in the life of father than being present and vocal when it comes to selecting the things that will speak into your child's life. This is a no-brainer when it comes to orchestrating family devotions, connecting with kids on their spiritual growth, and encouraging their character development as they learn to walk with Christ. Slightly down that ladder, though, you will find yet another serious obligation: the raising up of the child's mind, and the preparation that will lead him or her to eventually be able to fulfill the purpose set out before that child.

Mr. Blandings places a high value on being in the know when it comes to what our kids are learning. And truthfully, I couldn't be happier.

Does this mean that sometimes, he vetoes a particular choice I'm leaning towards? Yeah, it happens. One year, I was especially heartbroken when he gently but firmly told me that I was done writing my own science unit studies. After two years, he said, it was clear that the slice of time this endeavor took up was eating into much more important things in my life. To satisfy my own desire to feel creative and capable while meeting my kids' needs, I was taking time away from other things that needed my attention. And he, as my husband, could see it ... even when I couldn't.

I balked. I pouted. I fumed inside that he had no idea what he was talking about.

And, of course, two months into the new school year, I was thrilled at the new freedom I had found with the few hours a week that was no longer directed towards keeping a science program afloat.

Many, many moms have told me that having their husband "looking over their shoulder" would drive them nuts when it came to choosing curriculum. That it would "take the fun out of it." That homeschooling is "their thing" and they'd prefer their husbands to remain ignorant of what goes on in that area.

I think that while this is probably a very self-gratifying way of going about homeschooling, it misses the point. Your kids are never just your kids. They belong first to God, then to you and your husband. Would you feel that your husband was "looking over your shoulder" if he asked you what day your baby was due? Of course not. This is a group effort. A team approach. An US moment. And while we moms may be the ones teaching the math lesson, we are definitely not the only ones that will be held accountable for the outcome in the end.

Having Mr. Blandings involved does not spoil the fun of the homeschool hunt. It gives me a partner in crime. Rather than spending a chunk of time alone at the computer last night comparing science programs, I got to talk over what I was seeing with my husband. He pulled up a chair, shared a cup of coacoa with me, and debated the pros and cons of the two we had narrowed the options down to. In the end, both still unsure, we prayed. Together. Because of his intimate knowledge of our childrens' learning styles, as well as what we were seeing with these two programs, it was no generic prayer. It was a directed, specific request of God. I had nothing more to add to his eloquent plea for guidance.

This morning, I woke up feeling like one program was more of what we were looking for. At breakfast, I asked Mr. Blandings if he was feeling a leading in one direction or the other. He said yes, and named the program that I had in mind. It was confirmation of what I had been hearing. Now, I could have had the same peace by simply praying alone. But how much sweeter to have a second, invested voice piping alongside my own?

This fall, when I dig into the new school year with gusto and find myself swimming in the new waters of teaching chemistry while nursing a newborn, I will have the ultimate gift that comes from having a husband who shares in my passion for homeschooling: an encourager. Rather than offering a vague, "You can do it!" cheer from the sidelines, I will have a man who can assess our choices and help me think through what works and what doesn't. I will have a guy who will most likely volunteer to take on even more of the day-to-day teaching than he already does (he has taken over several subjects with individual kids, and holds his own version of a homeschool classroom with them on alternating days at 6 a.m.). I will have a partner.

My wish for every homeschooler is that they, too, can taste the joy of that blessing. For every mom who doesn't want her husband involved to see the benefits of letting go. For every disinterested dad to wake up and see what a huge part of parenting he's missing out on. For every family to feel what a powerful, profound gift we have in the homeschooling lifestyle. Homeschooling, after all, isn't just filling your kids up with a prescribed ration of knowledge. It's something much deeper; it's the kindling of a flame that will burn for life in the hearts and minds of the next generation. It's worth investing in. It's worth sacrificing for. It's worth making a priority. For everyone.

How to salvage a day gone horribly awry

So you woke up too late to see your husband off to work with a decent breakfast at all of 6:05 a.m.

Bible time? Not happening.

Your barely verbal 3.5 year-old can't seem to remember that hitting is not o.k.

And your almost 10 year-old has, for some unknown reason, become Mr. On the Verge of Tears.

And the phone keeps ringing.

And the dishes still haven't made it from the sink to the dishwasher.

And, my goodness, will the 23 month-old quit tangling himself in your skirt?
Did you seriously just hear yourself say that the preschooler could watercolor?
Ignore the phone. Ignore it.

I think your 8 year-old just said that he can't find his math book.
The oldest wants to know if that's an interjection when it's used that way. Think fast!
And oh, golly ... it's only 10 a.m.

Time to reconsider the concept of "plan" and go with the much more likely concept of "survival." Let's all study Roman architecture by means of sugar cookies. How's that sound, guys?





And that, my friends, is how you salvage a day, tastefully.

When you're more than a customer

In this post, I will sound like a spokesman. Please know that I'm aware of how gushing and touchy-feely that what I'm about to say sounds. I'm well aware that such ringing endorsements usually come with a price tag attached; Be assured that there is none. I am receiving absolutely nothing in exchange for what I'm about to say, other than the satisfaction of being able to shine the spotlight on a company (and it's employees) who have gone above and beyond yet again.

I'm talking about Sonlight, of course.

If you've read my blog for any length of time, you know that a good chunk of our homeschooling history has revolved around the elements of Sonlight Cores. You also know that I don't use their materials exclusively. I've combined Sonlight with other programs, added additional books, decided against some resources altogether, and even moved Jo to a different program entirely this year.

But if you were to ask me to define, in a nutshell, our philosophy of homeschooling and line it up with something that others could easily grasp, I'd point you in the direction of the Sonlight catalog. There, in its pages, you'll find the essence of what I think of as education--as it pertains to giving a child the tools to be inquisitive, answer questions, and engage the world. While each Sonlight Core has not fit our family with the custom-fit I'd love to claim, I have found that there's plenty there to qualify as the backbone of what I want my family to be learning. The specifics are up for negotiation. But the meat ... it's all right there.

We've been a Sonlight family since the spring of 2003, when I finally got my hands on the Core K IG and set about trying to convince my husband that a completely Christian education was not, by definition, and academically inferior one. (My, how times have changed. That very same husband recently challenged me on a history book I was looking at--demanding to know if I had made sure there wasn't a more "Christ-centered" version available!) Prior to actually teaching the materials in my home, I became a lurking member of the forums that the company maintains. Within a very short space of time, these forums became--literally--my homeschool support group as I struggled to make peace with what I knew from my own history of schooling and what I wanted for my own family. It was here that I learned that, yes, it's o.k. to ditch phonics when your child is reading at a fourth grade level but still only in kindergarten. It was here that I found lists for extra books, recipes for new treats to share, and encouragement when balancing school and toddlerhood seemed impossible.

Through it all, the IG and the forums held my hand. In such a crucible as the homeschooling life, a certain loyalty was born. I identified with being a Sonlighter. I was proud to wear the sweatshirt. I looked forward to seeing the photos in the catalog each March. I coveted the next Core.

With so many products, or corporations, or organizations, that kind of loyalty is seldom rewarded. Sure, there's the self-branding that goes on, making you feel like you're part of something bigger. But how often have I--a Coca-Cola snob since elementary school--received an unsolicited pat on the back just for drinking their soda? Ummmmm ... never. How often has our cell phone company of 7 years written to thank us for our business? Never.

Those are just companies, you say. All they do is sell you something. They want your money. They don't care about you--you're just a customer.

To be a customer means to exchange money for a product, good, or service. Rarely in today's word is anything else implied. Think about your relationship with the company that you bought your homeschool supplies from this year. I bet it went like this:

You pulled up a website. Filled a cart. Checked items. Hit purchase. Entered credit card information. Hit confirm. Waited for boxes. Received boxes. Checked contents. Moved on.

And that was it, wasn't it? You were just a customer. No more, no less. There was probably a small "Thank you for your order," printed on the bottom of your invoice ... but that was it, I'm betting. And you didn't feel cheated because your transaction was complete. The contract initiated through your purchase had been satisfied. You had what you wanted, the company had what they wanted, and your dealings were done.

If that was the extent of my relationship with Sonlight, truth be known, I would be satisfied. When I send them money, I expect to receive the books, IG, whole Core, whatever. Beyond that, they owe me nothing. And yet ...

With the purchases I make, I have access to the forums they maintain. I know that they used to be free, public forums. I'm not debating that. What I'm saying is that nowhere, in my purchase of a catalog item, did I expect to get a free forum subscription. One simply does not equal the other. But Sonlight provides this. And I am grateful. The forums continue to be a source of fellowship and on-the-job training for me. In my life, they are an integral part of homeschooling.

But Sonlight does not stop there. In October of 2007, after Logan's tonsillectomy, I received a note from Sarita Holzmann saying that my boy had been prayed over during one of their meetings. Seriously. The staff at Sonlight took the time to pray over my son! I was floored. Here I was, just a customer--and yet, somehow, my purchase had brought us into a relationship that now involved praying for my boy's health?

Last September, it happened again. This time, someone had brought our unfortunate Oli-flood to the attention of the people who run Sonlight. Within a few weeks, I received a personal email with their regrets over our losses, as well as a generous gift certificate. It brought me to tears. I called my husband and cried into the phone, praising God for the people who work on His behalf even in the business world. Have you ever heard of this kind of customer service? Would you expect this kind of response to an unstated need, just because you'd hit submit on an order?

This past week, I gained an entirely new perspective for the people and the heart behind Sonlight. As if it wasn't enough to have these amazing evidences of a company whose prime motivator is not profit but praise, I must tell you this:

After a particularly hard day of grappling with the "Why, Lord?" of Bee's not being home with us, I came downstairs to find my husband sitting on our couch, tears in his eyes. This wasn't particularly striking, since he'd been wrestling with his hurt and disappointment all day, trying to make sense of it all and trying to maintain a focus on God's sovereignty. As I sat down beside him, he placed a lovely notecard in my hand. I opened it, and was blessed. There, Sarita Holzmann had once again reached out to our family. This time, the topic was Bee, and she offered the balm that our hearts needed: said the Sonlight family was praying, encouraged us to keep moving forward, and offered us a word on the goodness of the Lord.

I ended up crying, too, of course. Mr. Blandings and I sat quietly on the couch, blessing those who had responded to God's urging who knows how many days before--not knowing that the simple act of writing a note would bring such comfort and such joy into the hearts of grieving parents and hurting fellow Christ-followers at just the right moment. That card was what we needed to keep going that night. Who knew that a curriculum publisher would be the one that stepped into the gap?

Sonlight is just a company. I am just a customer. But because we both serve the same God, what stands between us is, I think, so much more. I expect nothing but books and memories in return for my money, but what I get is prayer, support, and generosity. They expect nothing but prompt payment in return for their intellectual property and books, but what they get is my loyalty, word of mouth advertisement, and yes, prayer.

So, thank you, Sonlight, for thinking that I am more than just a customer. And thank you for acting like so much more than just a corporation trying to sell me something. Even if we had never had any dealings beyond the superior materials you provide, I would feel that I had stumbled onto a gem of a company well worth patronizing. As it turns out, I now know that the homeschool community has been blessed with more than just a single gem--you and your employees easily constitute an entire mine of precious stones, each one shining forth for the glory of God as you serve His people, one book at a time.

Homeschooling is cool like that

I read this post over at A Baker's Dozen today and found myself grinning from ear to ear. Why? Because this, to me, is one of the best parts of homeschooling: with the doors to personal interests left open, and not restrained by a set curriculum laid down by a bureaucrat whose prime goal is to secure state and federal funding, our children can accomplish and experience so much more than we've ever imagined.

Listen to the interests God has placed on your child's heart. Follow their calling. And let them dream big--God-sized dreams!

Homeschooling can be about freedom and true, eye-opening education. Or it can be about getting the job done and checking off the boxes. As the song says ... free your mind, and the rest will follow.

Going public

At the beginning of this month, Oliver became our first-ever public schooler. Having just graduated from (mandatory) Birth To Three program participation, we faced a decision: either get speech services through the school district, or get them through the developmental preschool. After much prayer, we decided that the preschool was worth a try.

Oli has enjoyed the two hour, twice weekly program. He is excited when he sees his little clear plastic, school-issue backpack come off of its hook on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He flaps his hands as we pull into the school parking lot, shouting, "Bus!" and "Sk-ooooo!" alternately. He leaps from my arms as I carry him to his classroom, barely pausing to shuck his coat before he clambers onto the special chair marked with his name, ready to start whatever sensory activity that his teacher has lined up for the session.

I am mixed with this utter love and acceptance of school. Even as I wholeheartedly embrace the blessing of two hours per week of intensive speech therapy, I am torn.

The preschool was supposed to feel like a necessary evil. Instead, it feels like more of a gift.

What's wrong with this picture?

The truth is, I went to the initial IEP meeting with a closed mind. We had been very pleased with Oli's private speech therapist prior to being told that, as a foster child, he was required to be enrolled in the state-run Birth to Three program. These services were provided at a lower cost to DSHS. Sadly, in our case, that also meant that they were of a lower quality. I was fairly certain that this would be an across-the-board trend in our area, and didn't hold out much hope for the opposite to be true when he turned three and, still not legally adopted, needed to begin receiving services directly through our school district.

I went to the meeting wondering if there was any way possible to get Oli back into private therapy. At worst, I thought, I can just lug him into town for the school's speech therapy once a week, check that box, and find a program to do with him at home until he could be put on our insurance. What I heard at the meeting changed my mind. Instead of anti-homeschooling, overbearing professionals who were ready to step in and parent my boy, I found understanding, open-minded folks who admitted that they had never worked with homeschoolers before, but were more than willing to give it a try. What's more, the idea of a parent actually wanting to be an active part of the process thrilled them. I left the meeting with a flicker of hope in my heart.

Mr. Blandings and I prayed. We looked at our social, amiable son. We researched other options. We found peace; We would enroll him in the preschool. If it fell flat, we would find another way. But if not, well ... maybe there was something God had for Oliver ... some blessing we couldn't yet see.

The teacher is fabulous. Her long experience with developmentally-delayed preschoolers is made even better, in my opinion by her own status as an adoptive mom. She embraces a Montessori-type approach to preschool. Her classroom is uncluttered, slightly dim, and cozy. She likes Oli, and can elicit some of his genuine, deep smiles--the ones he saves for his favoritest people.

Oliver has two classmates. One is a tall, quiet little girl named Nikki who does not speak and is on the autism spectrum. The other is Nathaniel, also autistic, who can raise the roof with his laughter and wild jaunts around the room. Three three year-olds, a teacher and an assistant, plus a speech therapist and occupational therapist. Water tables. Small, manageable furniture. Push trikes and playdough. For two and a half hours.

I guess I can see why he likes it.

It's been an odd experience, adjusting to even this little bit of institutionalized schooling in our lives. The clock, on school days, always feels like it's ticking. Our activities wrap around those hours--1-3:20 p.m.--in a different way than they adjust for those random intrusions in ones life. And then, there's always the strangeness of not having Oliver home, not having to keep a steady eye trained on him lest he fumble his way into trouble. Or not having to make space for him in the grocery cart.

"My arms feel empty," Jo said the other day, as we sat on the floor, reading our astronomy text. I looked over and realized that, while my lap was happily full of a squirming, rocking Manolin, she was missing Oliver, her constant companion.

That afternoon, when we went to collect him, she threw the van door open and snatched him from my arms.

"My Oli!" she laughed, burying her head in his cheek. "How was your day? What did you do? Is that paint on your chin?"

Jo, Atticus, and Logan have been decidedly against the entire premise of "sending Oli away for school." They avert their eyes as I free him of his carseat straps and stand him on the curb, adjusting his heavy coat and helping him into his backpack. They make no distinction in their minds between a public school classroom where children play with playdough and sort weighted pegs all afternoon and ones where children labor over fill-in-the-blank worksheets and math quizzes.

Mr. Blandings and I have tried to explain it, but our words seem to fall flat. To our children--true black and white thinkers--there is no reasoning that public school could be the answer for a particular season, or service, or child, even. They don't want to go to public school. Therefore, they don't want their brother to go to public school. They respect our choice, but they don't understand it. While it pains me to know that they are wondering if I have utterly lost my mind, I am o.k. with their doubts.

The truth is, I have them, too.

I wonder if these hours in a classroom will have a worthwhile effect for Oli. I wonder if he will pick up behaviors that he doesn't currently struggle with. I wonder if I will forever be the squeaky-wheel parent, the only one to say "No, thanks" to the bus transportation, the only one to ask for a written list of skills being covered so that I can supplement them at home. I wonder if Oliver will learn anything. I wonder if I am wondering too much.


Before I send any of my children off into the world without me--be it to a night of AWANA or to a friend's to play--I always say this blessing over them:

May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

As I swing Oli into my arms just outside of the elementary school, I whisper these words in his ear and prepare my heart for handing him over not truly to the kindly Miss Teacher who handknit him a sweet hat to have as a "welcome to School" gift on his first day. No ... what I must remember is that I am handing him over to GOD. In following a prayerfully considered path, I am trusting that GOD is in control. He has led us here, and He will not allow harm to come to Oliver. And until we meet again, I trust that God will hold Oliver in the palm of His hand--his education, his future, and his heart.

Putting doubts to rest

I recently read a book about homeschooling that I disagreed with almost completely. The author's admitted bias, his background ... everything about it worked against the entire premise of the project: To begin the process of understanding homeschooling. I read the book, mostly because I am curious as to what anti-homeschooling advocates have to say, and also because I keep a sharp eye out for anything that might have the potential to undermine my ability/right/legal standing to homeschool my children.

I read the entire book. I shrugged when the author seemed unable to grapple with some of the truths we homeschoolers know to be self-evident (instructional time, for example, need not be as long as that often employed in a classroom setting). I shuddered when the author's point was proven. (Why, oh why, did the nearly illiterate parents from Tennessee--the ones who proudly displayed their "Rod of Correction"--volunteer to be interviewed?) And I was sadly resigned when the book closed with its premise unshaken: homeschooling is at best a substitute for poor classroom instruction, but at worst a detriment to the child.

I put the book down and tried to forget about it. The truth, though, is that a small seed of doubt was planted in my mind. Is my best good enough for my children? Are they missing out on something magical that would, truly, speak into them academically?

Academics are my weak spot, you see. I don't doubt--not for a single second--that the moral training my brood receives is far superior to the one they'd have at the hands of someone who was forced to stay without the limits of what is allowed in a public school. It's the academics I worry about--the reading, the writing, the math. Am I doing enough?

God has a funny way of setting these fears to rest. Last night, as Atticus as I made our way through a quick trip at our local grocery store, my eye was drawn to a bulletin board. On it were the collected works of a local third grade class--the best of the best, as it were. Assembled, for our viewing pleasure, were the efforts of several 8 year-old children who had been handed a worksheet. On it, the teacher had left a space for artwork, then written in a few sentence starters. On first glance, I thought this was a kindergarten assignment. In my homeschool, I stop giving intros in the beginning of first grade. Yes, I might dictate something ("I want you to write a couple of sentences about how you feel. Need some help? You can use "I feel ...' or even "I am ...' Let's talk about how a sentence starts. First, you use what kind of letter?" etc.) but I'm not giving them fill-in-the-blank sentences that will be easily scratched in and forgotten.

But these sheets were noteworthy in their lack of any evidence of actual creative requirement, let alone any real instruction. These kids--one year older than Logan, one year younger than Atticus--these kids, these promising, star public school students, were lauded for their work.

Seeing their efforts made me feel so much better. Punctuation either wildly incorrect, or missing entirely. Words misspelled far beyond phonetic accounting. Handwriting that is completely illegible. And these are the ones they chose to celebrate in front of the entire community as a sign of the excellent education our local students are receiving!

Why did seeing this horrible excuse for public education make me, a citizen, feel better? Because truthfully, if this is what my local public schools expect of a third grader, I am in no way failing.

Behold:




Homeschooling is not perfect. There are children out there, right now, ostensibly being homeschooled, who are 17 years-old and unable to read a newspaper through no fault of his own. There are homeschoolers who put on Wiggles videos to fulfill a music requirement. Yes, there are "homeschoolers" who beat their children.

But when held to the standard of education that is set before us by our communities, most of the homeschoolers I know personally far and away exceed the "bare minimum" that so many outsiders think we struggle to maintain. We are the parents who stay up late researching creative math games. We are the parents who spend hours sitting cross-legged on the floor with a globe on our lap and geography flashcards at our sides. We are the parents who peek over our 8 year-old's shoulder and sing, "I-before-E-except-after-C ..."

We are doing a good job. No matter what a handful of detractors think, we are educating our children. And we're doing it well. And with love.

Never forget that, mom.

At the library

I ran into a friend at the library today. She had a grande something-yummy-with-whip in her left hand, and in her right hand were three of the novels that have been on my "to read" list for so long that I had even forgotten to put them into my Paberbackswap wishlist. She'd just come from getting her hair done, she said--and indeed, her hair looked as fresh and springy as the very hip dress boots she was sporting.

"You here with the little ones?" she asked, tilting her chin to Manolin, who was strapped into the stroller, scowling. Oliver stood dutifully nearby, mumbling, "Howwd dight, 'Li. Howwd dight, 'Li," as a reminder of his role in this whole process.

"Oh, no. They're all around here somewhere," I said, waving my hand to indicate that my offspring were lurking deep in the stacks. Not deep enough, apparently; Just then, Logan bounded by, followed closely by our rattling, overstuffed book bin.

"I don't know how you do it," she told me then, and I pondered this familiar phrase anew. What part is so novel? What seems impossible? At what point, I wonder, do I approach insanity in the eyes of the masses?

"It's not that tough," I said then, catching the beautiful sight of my daughter's lithe form heading towards me with a toothy grin, arms full to bursting with her haul of reading material. "They're great kids."

"Yeah, but ...." and she stopped for a minute, pondering the plausibility of it all. "You gave up all of this," she raised her latte and reading material, "for that." Again, she nodded in the direction of my little brood.

I couldn't think of a thing to say, so she filled the silence.

"I have the best of both worlds," she continued. "I've got my kids. And when they're at school, I get this too."

She offered me a the Cheshire Cat grin of one who has figured it all out.

Just then, Atticus--who must have spent the past ten minutes plotting out his sneak attack--wrapped his arms around me in a bear hug from behind, nearly toppling me over in surprise. I laughed so hard that Manolin and Oliver caught the giggles and started shrieking. Our joy echoed through the stillness of the library. I ruffled Atticus' copious strawberry-blond hair.

My friend was staring at me now. Her eyes had softened.

"My nine year-old wouldn't be caught dead hugging me in public," she admitted with a longing sigh.

I contemplated her coffee, her new haircut, her ability to read for hours on end, uninterrupted. I could still feel the firmness of my delighted, delightful Atticus' arms as they snaked around my sides. I made a mental note to check my Paperbackswap wishlist status, and to put a Starbucks card on my Christmas list.

"God bless you," I told her, and I meant it. "Have a great day."