YES! I could and I should!

There’s something utterly terrifying about withdrawing your child from public school.  We’ve been taught that the teachers have been certified to be “good teachers”, that the schools are safe and that our children are receiving the best care while attending.  Every comment from any nay-sayer runs through your head: “he won’t get enough socialization”, “are you sure you know how to teach him everything he needs to know?”, “do you really have the patience to have your child with you ALL THE TIME?”

TERRIFYING!!

But the schools aren’t necessarily safe; the teachers aren’t always “good”.  As to the rest, I’ve struggled with those questions continually. 

After observing BJ’s class and realizing that we needed another option, I immediately started looking for a homeschool group that might be able to offer help and advice.  I attended a meeting of the local homeschool network and met several ladies that gladly answered as many of my questions as I could think of at the moment.  Then something happened that really set my mind at ease about the “socialization” question.  A young woman, probably about 16 years old, came over to Lori, the lady I was chatting with.  This young lady politely waited until she was acknowledged, said “excuse me” and started a conversation with Lori.  All the while she stood or sat with poise, looked Lori in the eyes, used correct grammar and showed respect to Lori and myself.  This was NOT the scene I would have expected from most public school kids I’d been around, where a conversation was likely to be short, surly and full of slang.  And when I looked around, I noticed that just about all of the kids showed this same level of maturity and social ability, at least for their age.  Score one for homeschooling!

So, at the end of his 3^rd grade year, I withdrew BJ from Public School.  We spent the summer doing some “bridging” activities, trying to figure out where he was academically, what he needed and how I might best be able to meet those needs for him.  I knew that one of our largest hurdles was going to be the reading.  We had learned the previous winter that BJ had some eye focusing issues that needed “Eye Therapy”.  However at $800 per month for almost two years, I had to admit that covering basic necessities was more important.  So we spent a lot of time simply reading.  We pretty much started over with Primers, trying to re-build his confidence and possibly fill in some blanks in his skills.

By the end of the summer, I had realized that BJ was probably a little above grade level on Math.  He was on level with history and science, and could comprehend and remember most everything that was read TO him. And his reading and writing were about mid-1^st grade level.  I found a boxed-curriculm that was heavy on the reading so we could really push that, and much of the reading was subject related so he could be getting a deeper understanding of what he was learning in history.  I chose a 1^st grade level set (bought off craigslist for half the price of retail!) and fourth grade math and science separately.

It didn’t take me long to start worrying again about what I was doing.  BJ didn’t want to do his work, it felt like all I was doing was reading to him or listening to him read all day long, and we were both getting frustrated.  I found facebook friends to get support from, chatted with the ladies in our homeschool group and pushed on.

By the end of the 4^th grade year we were still fighting, but BJ was now reading at a 3^rd grade level! And he hadn’t fallen any farther behind in history, math or science, like had been beginning to happen in public school. Best of all, he was regaining self confidence and no longer hated school. Yay, us!

And then came an “ah-hah!” moment:

We were attending “Carver Days” at the George Washington Carver Monument and stopped at the Civil War Re-enactor’s display.  They had several old guns and a knowledgeable, friendly man willing to answer lots of questions.  We had just read about how Eli Whitney had made assembly line style guns for the first time, making many guns from a single model.  We were able to look at the guns and discuss which were individually made, which were assembly line, which were flint-lock and so-forth.  BJ was able to discuss the differences with me and the expert with a good amount of knowledge.  If I hadn’t been homeschooling him, I wouldn’t have known to use this opportunity to reinforce what he’d just learned in history!  BOOM!  Angels were singing choruses in my ears!  It was suddenly like all the sweat and tears of the last year had really been worth it!

We recently started our fifth year of homeschool.  BJ is now in the 8^th grade and has no interest in ever returning to public school.  It’s still a constant struggle to get him do his work.  He still struggles with his reading. I still struggle with feelings of inadequacy as a teacher (and sometimes as a parent!) But we’ve both come to love the experience as a whole and I am so glad that I decided “YES! I can and should do this!”

SHOULD I DO THIS?

We recently started our fifth year of homeschooling with my older son, who is now 14 and in the 8^th grade.  It has been quite a journey.  As with most Homeschoolers who started in the public school system, we have a story as to why we started homeschooling, and it might be hard to understand why we continue to do this, without knowing “Our Story”.  So I’m going to take a cathartic moment and share!

             

When my beautiful little boy was 3 years old, he was still mostly non-verbal.  I had worked in childcare for most of his life, so I recognized that he was bright in many ways, but not on-level in many others.  I had also been able to spend time with him while still working, so I knew his delays weren’t from a lack of care.  So, with guidance from a wonderful Nurse Practitioner, we enrolled him in Early Head Start.  It was a traumatic day for Mamma when I put my most prized treasure on a school bus and watched him ride away with a huge smile on his face, knowing that if there was any kind of emergency, my son was incapable of telling anyone even so little of information as his own name!

             

Mamma’s trauma aside, it was a great experience.  My son enjoyed his time in school and started to progress.  By the time he was 4 years old, he had finally begun talking and made incredible leaps and bounds throughout that year and the next.  When he completed 1^st grade, his teacher had WONDERFUL things to say about him: happy, friendly, helpful, very empathetic!  However, while he was only slightly behind on his learning skills, his social skills were still a noticeably behind and so we decided to hold him back at this age, to try to avoid the possibility of having to hold him back later, when it would be more of a social stigma.

             

Another year of 1^st grade and more of the same: great attitude, happy, friendly, a joy in the classroom!! While he still struggled to keep up academically, at least he was happy and doing his best.

             

Then we moved from Washington State to Small-Town Missouri.  We were told that we were in a community with great schools.  I was able to talk to his teacher and obtain a new IEP and all looked like it would continue as before.  However within two weeks I was getting notes from his teacher saying how BJ was being disruptive, talking to the other kids and not getting his work done.  And things went down from there.  By the last quarter of 3^rd grade, I was making deals with his teacher about only taking my son to Basketball if all his work had gotten done.  I couldn’t understand how “he’s such a wonderful, sweet boy—a joy in the classroom,” had become “he’s always talking and disrupting the classroom, and he’s not even trying.”

             

By the time Basketball season was over, he had essentially dropped out of that activity due to not having his work done at school, so not being allowed to participate.  Then his teacher called and said he had refused to do an assignment for her, and what was I going to do about it?  I admitted I wasn’t sure what else TO do, what did she suggest?  “Well, why don’t you not allow him to participate in Cub Scouts?”  Somehow that was the moment that drew me up short.  Scouts was the one place that I knew he was being able to learn, have fun and experience some much-needed-success!  I was his Den Leader, so I knew that he wasn’t any more disruptive than any of the other boys—they’re boys!!  It was that moment that I decided maybe there was something wrong here, and NOT my son.

           

 I asked his teacher if I could come into the classroom to observe, to see what exactly was happening, so I could more easily address it at home.  She told me that they were currently preparing for the MAPS testing, so I could not be in the classroom at this time.  “Aren’t you going to do anything to hold up the ‘deal’ we made with him at the last conference??” she asked in an accusatory tone.  “Uhm, that doesn’t seem to be working.  I think we need to try something else.”  At which point she practically hung up on me.  So I called the principal.  She was more than willing to let me come into the classroom to observe and apologized for her teacher speaking to me with an inappropriate attitude. (Whew! At least THAT made me feel like someone was in our corner!)

             

So the next day I sat in on part of his afternoon class.  I was there for 15 minutes and had to leave so no one would see me cry.

           

 The teacher had the entire class sitting at their desks with Social Studies books and worksheets.  One child would read the question for the group, then they’d all individually find the answer and write it on their papers.  Once they were done, they were expected to pick up their “Free-Reading” books until everyone was done with THAT question.  Meanwhile the teacher would go around and answer questions, help the students find the answers, etc.  Finally everyone seemed to be done and Mrs. B asked if everyone was ready to move on? Any other questions? “(Big sigh) BJ, are YOU done? Do YOU need help??”  There is no way to type the tone of voice she used; it made me cringe.  And of course, he needed help.  She again sighed and turned his page, “Look, BJ, the answer is right here, in this paragraph.”  Keep in mind, my son was only reading at a 1^st grade level, having made no progress in reading since moving here.  So reading the Social Studies text was a challenge, making it impossible to actually comprehend what he had read.  As he sat there with his head in his hands, and the teacher standing over him practically tapping her foot, the whole class was now watching.  “BJ, LOOK! RIGHT HERE! It says…….”  And then of course he had to try to copy the section she’d pointed out onto the line on the worksheet, not even knowing what exactly he was writing.

           

I can’t even express how much that scene hurt me.  My beautiful, happy, loving, empathetic child was being ABUSED by his teacher and no one even saw it! That teacher had essentially just told the entire class that he was stupid, and worse, that it was ok to make fun of him for it!  No wonder he had started hating school and feeling like he was stupid—I would too!

           

 I’d like to be able to say that I took my son by the hand right then and whisked him away from that school.  That I told his teacher she was a mean old crone and never let her speak to my son again.

             

But I was weak and scared.  Worried about “could I do this?” “should I do this?” “I don’t want to burn any bridges by making a big scene.”

             

So I let him finish the last 3 weeks of that school year.

           

I don’t think that decision made any huge difference in anyone’s life.  BJ had already had an entire school year of this situation; I doubt that 3 weeks would have really changed anything for him in the long run.  However, I still wish I had had the guts to pull him at that moment.

DREAMING IN SHADES OF PINK

In the fall of 1998, I found myself pregnant.  While my fiancé was dreaming of a little girl, I was secretly hoping for a boy.  Personally, I wanted to have a boy as my oldest child.  Well, I got my wish, and Brandon is almost 12 years old now! I have loved him more than anything in the world! My son and I have always been very close, sharing a bond even stronger than most mothers and sons.

However, ever since Brandon was born, I have hoped to have the opportunity to have a baby girl.  I wished for this little girl so hard, that I had a “hope chest” full of frilly little outfits and fuzzy pink blankets.  So 7 months ago, when I found myself pregnant again, with my beau of several years, I was sure I was carrying a girl.  And not only out of wishful thinking, but also because of differences in symptoms, and other little signs that lead me to believe that my prayers had been answered.

At the beginning of January we went in for our ultra-sound.  I was overwhelmed with nervousness! I assumed that the baby would be healthy—all I really cared about finding out from the screening was the gender.  Shortly into the scan, the nurse showed us the unmistakable appendage that completely shattered my dreams.  I cried.  I was able to keep from sobbing, but sitting there looking at my husband to be, the father of this life growing inside me, the tears rolled hot and fast down my cheeks.  Which of course lead to guilt for being so unhappy with the miracle we’d been blessed with, and I cried even more.

That night I emptied the baby dresser of all those precious frocks, with matching hats, bloomers and booties.  The little one-piece suits with bonnets and undershirts.  All the adorable sleepers that I had could so envision snuggling my daughter in.  I put them back in the hope box, and made my ever-patient fiancé take the box and hide it away in the back bedroom.  Then I went and purchased several boxes of gently used baby boy clothes, carefully folding them and putting them into their place in the baby dresser. 

Somehow the boy things all looked so plain.  So boring.  So ugly. 

I tried to tell myself that a boy would be just as good.  Of course I would love a son!  How could I not??  For several days, every time he kicked me, rather than the indulgent smile I’d have gotten just the week before, part of me wanted to yell at the BOY in my belly.  I was so angry at this injustice that had somehow been perpetrated against me!  And of course, all of these emotions would again be followed with the self-hating guilt.  I had begged so hard for this baby—and just because it wasn’t a girl, I was going to hold it against the cosmos?? Hold it against HIM?!? What was wrong with me?!?

I bought a baby name book, and scoured it for names I liked.  At first they all sounded so stupid.  But after a while, I started finding some I liked.  I made a huge list of EVERY name that struck me at all.  And as I started thinking of the baby in terms of “Holden” or “Archer”, he became more real.  I started to forgive the universe for the mistake it had made.  I started to forgive myself for my own anger.  And I started to accept, even like…maybe even love the BOY I was nourishing inside me.

I’ve now had nearly two months to accept the changed perspective of my life.  I’m happy to be having this baby.  I do love this child, Leighton, the first progeny of my fiancé.  But I will admit that I still look longing at all the little girls I see around me.  I have to focus on the “attitude” girls often exude. The fact that “everyone” says they’re harder to raise than boys.  I have to tell myself “See! Aren’t you GLAD this ended up being a boy?!”

The answer is no.  I’m still not glad that I didn’t get my little girl.  I still feel like I’ve lost a dream.  That I’m somehow unfulfilled.  Don’t get me wrong: I WILL and DO love my growing son, Leighton.  But that doesn’t stop the grief for the daughter that I had already envisioned in my arms.  After 11 years of dreaming of shades of pink, it almost feels like a physical loss to have to change those visions. It feels like “Emma” was actually a real child that somehow was ripped away from me.  I am dealing with this “loss” every day; going through the stages of grief.  But what makes it worse, is knowing that I can’t admit how hard it’s hit me.  It’s not acceptable to feel loss for a child that never was, just because the child I have is not the gender I want. It’s not acceptable to be so unthankful for the gift I’ve been given, when so many couples can’t have children at all.

Acceptable or not, I am grieving.  And not only am I suffering through the hormonal moodiness of most pregnant women, but I’m also riding a roller coaster of grief for the daughter I’m not having; love, joy and anticipation for the boy I am having; and guilt for all so many emotions!

I know when I have Leighton in my arms, this will all seem so distant….and I can’t wait for that moment!

EMPOWERMENT

A national radio station has been suggesting that rather than making a New Years Resolution, that listeners choose a Power Word for the year.  They suggest that once you choose your word, you keep this word in mind throughout the year, using it to focus your actions.

I have chosen the word “empowerment”.  In traditional Junior High School manner, I started with a trip to Ol’ Mr. Webster, or at least the online equivalent.   Empowerment: to give power or authority to; authorize, esp. by legal or official means; OR to enable or permit. I especially like the word “ENABLE” in there.

Most of the time when we think of empowerment, it seems that we think in terms of “girl power”. Especially in reference to a woman being strong and independent.  I don’t generally feel that I need to focus on more personal strength.  However, the word Empowerment really stuck with me.  I think there are a number of ways I can Empower this year.

My son is now nearly 12 years old, but honestly doesn’t always act like it.  I want to focus on empowering him to be stronger for himself.  Encouraging him to believe in himself, believing that he CAN do all those things he tends to say “I can’t” to.  This will require a fairly major change on my part.  I have the bad habit of doing things for him, rather than making him figure out how to do it for himself.  It’s just so much easier to do it myself—but as he’s getting older, its getting rather silly for his Mommy to have to do things for him!

Using that same theory on my Cub Scout boys is another goal.  Each boy should feel empowered to be HIS best.  This includes reminding him, sometimes over and over, that he is good at something! It seems that a high percentage of my boys are not naturally feel self confident.  They tend to be non-sports-oriented, often more along the lines of being “geeky”.  They are often not academically astute, with tendencies toward hyperactivity, all of which unfortunately does not make them the most popular in their classes.  Enabling them to find something that they are good at, giving them an opportunity to “win”, will Empower these boys, and provide them with something to have pride in!  This can be a life-long change for them!

I also want to focus on the idea of empowering the miscellaneous people around me.  There are moments when everyone could use encouragement; a reminder to believe in themselves.  If I can provide this, why shouldn’t I?  It costs me nothing, but will provide great rewards in knowing that the people I care about are feeling enabled in their own lives!

Finally, I do know that there are still areas in my own life that I can work on.  I want to remember my own power to have patience; to be more active; to do my job and everything I undertake to the best of my ability, without taking on too much! 

I believe in myself.  I believe in my son, the cub scouts, and all my family and friends.  So for this next year, I will work to empower everyone!

The Great Santa Debate

My 11 year old son came to my husband and I the other day, and announced that he knew there was no such thing as Santa Clause.  And further, that he knew it was just us, acting like Santa.  To which, my husband chuckled, saying that “Us” was not completely accurate—since it’s generally just myself.

Most people I talk to remember how they found out this disturbing truth.  Personally, I was 6 years old, and came home crying to my mother, asking if it was true.  My parents had gone out of their way to keep the dream alive for as long as possible. They had special paper that only came from Santa’s Workshop.  No matter how late I stayed up, or early I got up, I never caught them putting out the gifts.  The cookies and milk were always nibbled and sipped. And there was always a present or two that I hadn’t told them about—only written in my letter to Santa Clause.

I was devastated for weeks!  For some reason this realization was very traumatic to me, and I never forgave the neighbor boy who had the audacity to share such depressing news with me.

I carried on the same farce with my own son for many years.  I even added the tidbit of having “Santa” write a thank you note to Brandon for the cookies and milk!  He had a blast, and loved to get up every Christmas morning and run around to check that the cookies and milk had been consumed, and see what Santa had written, even before checking out his stocking or the presents.  When he first came to me a few years back, asking if Santa Clause was real, I wrote a children’s story for him, discussing how “Santa” had more to do with the Giving Spirit, than the physical manifestation of St. Nicholas.  He didn’t ask again for a couple of years…until now.

I was personally saddened to see his innocence end, but at least he was able to come by it more naturally.  But the poor boy has been sworn to secrecy, not to tell any one else, and ruin their fun.  Plus he’ll have to keep up the party-line with a younger sibling on the way, including writing letters to Santa Clause and acting surprised and excited on Christmas morning.  And truth be told, I’ll miss being the Jolly Ol’ Elf for him—it’s always been fun for me to offer him that little pleasure.

For everyone who learned the hard truth too early, and all of us who love to keep the story going for our children, I say again, that St. Nicholas is alive in the Giving Spirit that we are willing to share with others!  Merry Santa-ing to all!

O'Tannenbaum

I’ve always been the one in my family pushing to put up the Christmas tree as soon as the Thanksgiving Turkey was cold.  When I was a kid, my little sister and mom would join the band wagon, while my father would drag his heals until at least after his Birthday, on the 11^th.  Now, as an adult, I’m still the same way, but now my son joins in the chorus on my side, while my husband makes excuses for delaying as long as he possibly can!

Getting the Christmas tree up has always been a bit of an adventure.  Once we finally had Daddy convinced that it really was time to get the tree, then he had to decide where the best place was to get the tree.  Sometimes this was off our own property, but often times from a local tree farm.  Of course this process included much tramping through mud to find the perfect tree. At which point poor, dear ol’ Daddy would have to get down in the muck to cut the tree by hand.  Said tree was then dragged back to the truck.

Once home, Daddy spent a good amount of time on the carport trying to wrangle the tree into a perfectly vertical position in the not-so-convenient tree-stand.  He finally got to take a break while the tree stood sheltered in the carport to dry.  This reprieve was short lived however, as his brood of women-folk were soon clamoring for him to bring the tree in.  He and mom would decide where to put the tree for the year, and he’d have to help move furniture around, usually trying a couple of different formations before it was decided that it all looked just right.  Now Daddy got to dig through the storage bins to find the Christmas tree lights, check that they all worked, and untangle them.  It was also Dad’s responsibility to get the lights on the tree before we started with the other decorations.

Finally, after hours of waiting ever-so-patiently for Daddy to FINALLY get the tree ready for us, my mother, sister and I would apply all the little ornaments to the tree.  My father would start his German Christmas Carol record (Yes, record) and we’d decorate the tree to “O’Tannenbaum”.  Daddy would sit, rocking in his chair with a cup of tea, softly singing in German along with the music, and watch as we meticulously adorned the Christmas tree.

The tree is already up at my house this year, much to my husband’s chagrin.  We do usually keep it a little simpler than it was during my childhood, by just getting our tree at the supermarket, or in really lean years, pulling out the plastic tree.  However, my husband stops at getting the tree properly placed in the stand. After that, the lights and decorations are all on me. 

I love having the Christmas tree in the living room, seeing those lights, and reminiscing about the times that each of those special ornaments represents. But I have to admit, now that most of the decorating and taking down are MY responsibility, I suddenly have a whole lot more sympathy for why my father seemed reluctant to start on this particular Holiday project.  On the other hand, I wouldn’t forgo having our own Tannenbaum for even twice the amount of work!  Aah, what a wonderful time of year!!

Decorations "Make" the Tree

When I was about 5 or so, for reasons I was too young to remember, we didn’t have any Christmas ornaments.  So my mother purchased a package of construction paper, scissors, glue and glitter.  For several weeks, we sat around making paper decorations.  We had snow-men with real twig arms, paper candy canes, wreaths, Santa’s and reindeer.  My mother even made little collage scenes of our house.  And of course we made miles of paper-chains!  Crowning this beauty was our star: cardboard covered with tin-foil and doused in every color of glitter we had!  My mother still raves about that tree; and we both have fond memories of all the time we spent making all those little curios.

The year after that, we had a few more ornaments, but my mother insisted on mostly using those paper decorations we’d made the year before.  In fact, the star was our standard for several years, and I think she still has it buried away somewhere, along with some of the more memorable of the other items.

By the year I was seven, we still didn’t have very many ornaments. But I had received a brand new Singer Sewing machine from my grandfather the year before, and mom had a plan to decorate the tree, which still did not include store-bought ornaments.

Instead, she had found fabric of little cloth Christmas Angels, ready to be cut and sewn together into ornaments.  I can’t tell you how long I worked on those buggers, but it sure seemed like a long time to a seven year old.  Each one had two identical sides, of course, which had to be sewn together, leaving a small opening. Then I had to carefully turn them right-side out, using a chop-stick to push out the corners, stuff them with cotton, and meticulously hand stitch that little opening. By the time I was done, we probably had about 100 of these decorations, and I had become pretty good at sewing!

Those were the ornaments we used for most of my child-hood.  Admittedly they were very handy with animals and a toddler in the house! My mother bragged about how I had personally made each of those decorations, to everyone who would possibly listen.  And when I left home, all but a few of those Angels came with me, to start my own tree!

As an adult, I look at those Angels, and think about the paper decorations, and shake my head about how imperfect they were.  But no matter how poorly I think those items look, my mother remembers all of it with pride. Pride at my creativity, my resourcefulness, and my coordination in making them all!  And her pride, and the things I learned from making those projects, has become one of my own fond memories!