Building an education

It's funny, the second or third things that people ask about when they find out that I'm homeschooling my kids. They always ask how I do it -- how I teach so many subjects, and how I'll be able to teach chemistry, calculus, French -- anything that's hard.

It's just such a strange thing to ask that it always throws me -- why on earth would I teach chemistry? I can't even understand why they're asking, and it takes me a minute to realize what the question means, and I know right away that they know nothing about homeschooling and that we have to start the conversation on a very basic level.

Oh, and for the record, the first and second things people ask? How my kids are going to make any friends, and how I can do it, when they couldn't possibly. Those are entirely different questions, to be answered another day. What I'm addressing now is how, not why. And why it's a whole lot simpler, and more complex, than most people seem to think.

I have an extended analogy, if you'll forgive me for it, and follow along. I think it's a good one, and it's the way I frame homeschooling in my head.

I think of building an education like building a home. You start at the bottom, with a good foundation, and you build the walls, add a roof, and if you've done it right, you've got something that will last you a long time. You can always add on later, and of course, if there are parts you don't like, you can start over.

But here's the thing: I'm the contractor for my kids' education. I'm not the builder. I'm not the designer. I'm not even the architect. All I do is figure out what they need built, how much time we've got to build it, what materials and terrain we're working with, and who's the best person to complete each job.

And then I just get out of the way.

The public school system does the same thing, of course: They're the country's biggest provider of educations, or in this analogy, "houses." Public schools crank out cookie-cutter houses. I hate cookie-cutter houses, and I always have. Sure, they'll keep the rain off. But they all look alike, and they have that stupid two-car garage right in front, staring at you, letting you know that there was no thought or care put into the design, and the materials are cheap, the construction is shoddy, and there's nothing custom about them. You could have the same house in Arizona, Florida or New York, and you wouldn't know the difference.

I'm a funky, custom-made, do-it-cheap-but-well, add-all-the-finishing-touches-you-want sort of girl, myself.

If you want a yurt in Alaska, that's what you should have. But find a good yurt builder, someone with a passion for that type of design. Don't go to David Weekly homes and ask them to build you a yurt. You're going to get a two-car garage tacked onto that sucker, whether you want it or not. Plus a two-story entrance way with windows that no one can see out of, looking onto a view of your neighbor's garage.

Nope. For my kids, I help them figure out what they need, what style they're looking for, and then I find people to help them build it.

I'm thinking Sander's going with "log cabin in the woods."

He needs an education that involves the outdoors, hands-on, animals, working outside, and he doesn't care if he ever reads a classic. Unless maybe it's White Fang or Moby Dick. Chemistry? Maybe. If he needs it to get a job as a forest ranger or a veterinarian.

But all the actual "work" of his education? The walls and roof, so to speak? We'll put the studs and walls in here -- teach him to read, figure out what kind of floor plan he wants, a little math, lots and lots of books about animals and nature and science. And then for the fancy stuff? Animal physiology, vertebrates, mammalian study, botany?
I would no more teach those classes than I would lay in my own electrical work. Sure, I could do it with a step-by-step manual, and some people do that for education. They buy a set curricullum, and on day one it says, "Turn to chapter one, read it, and answer the questions. Read pages 1-17 in the textbook."

But why wouldn't I hire an expert for science, art or math? They're the metaphorical equivalent of tilework, electric, plumbing and painting -- and I'd rather have someone with a gift and a passion for those subjects do them, thanks.

Writing? I can teach writing. And if I built a house, I'd love to help design and lay out the garden, plan the kitchen, figure out what appliances to put in. But I'm sure as hell going to stay away from the electrical grid if I want the house to run right.

So, for Sawyer, I teach writing, and we both have a passion for history. His "building" is more Griffyndor common room than log cabin. His building, were it real, would be full of classics, literature, art, and a bit of modern technology. That's an easy building to create: There are lots of plans out there for kids who want that style. There's classical education, a little tradition, maybe some Waldorf for a touch of magic.

A lot of Charlotte Mason, with some good teachers for the sub-contractors. I don't teach math -- he uses Teaching Textbooks, Khan Academy or some other fabulous resource with brilliant instructors. I'd be doing him a disservice to use anything less. Same for science -- sure, we could use a textbook, read the chapter, check off the answers. But in that case, why not just go to public school and get the same standard education that everyone gets?

So we'll find a science teacher with a passion for teaching small groups and let her lead Sawyer into a whole new world. It's like finding a good tile guy -- once you've seen them at work, you wonder why you ever even attempted to rent the tile saw from Home Depot. You're just fooling yourself. Let the expert get in there and do it right.

And Scout? We're still figuring out what kind of foundation she'll need. We know it requires a love of learning, a joyful curiousity, and a passion to excel. Beyond that, does she need an urban loft, driven by technology and the need to fit into an electronic world? Or will she need an artist's loft in Paris, and need a love of language, art history, style and drive?

The jury's still out on her. Frankly, the boys are a work in progress as well -- Sawyer's only just turning 12, and only going into seventh grade.

But the foundations are in place, and have been for years. I can build walls, and I can teach Sawyer to build walls, so when the time comes to renovate, he'll have the tools and know-how to do it. And when it comes times to decorate and add his own style --  writer or an engineer, Harvard or University of Texas -- he'll have helped design, build and put up the structure. He'll have seen me hire the subcontractors to do some of the work, and he'll have worked with them on the details. And when he stands back after his college graduation, he'll have something to be proud of, something that he helped build.

And it will look very different than the houses that most people have. But that's the way it should be, right? Because if you're going to live with that house for the rest of your life, why wouldn't you build it to spec? I guess the people who ask if I'm going to teach chemistry have a valid point, if they think all homeschoolers are simply attempting to do the equivalent of building homes themselves with a how-to manual and a giftcard to Home Depot. I'd be pretty wary of that, too.

And maybe there are some homeschoolers who do just that. But for us, we spend our days immersed in the fascinating world of building now to create futures, and there's very little that someone else's blueprints can tell you.

My stories

Published April 9, 2011

I am, in essence, a cheery optimist. To the point of idiocy.

I believe in the goodness of people, of kindness, of laughing babies and sunny days at the beach and the mantra of “everything is going to be just fine.”

Even when, quite obviously, it isn’t.

And so, although I have promised myself that I would write my stories down, of where I came from, of who I am, of my journey here, I haven’t. Because they’re not pretty stories.

They’re not clever or cheerful, though some of them are quite funny. Well, they are now. At the time I wasn’t too thrilled about them.

I’ve decided to skip the dark parts and stick with the wonderful. 

The day to day. Not quite unicorns and rainbows, but raising children and visits to the swimming hole and the man I have loved and adored for fifteen years and the stories of him. And of strong, fierce boys who amaze me with their insight. Of lessons learned.

Yet.

How did I, in fact, get here?

If you know me in real life at all, you know parts of it. 

If the stories were about battle scars and old wounds and tales of heroism and bravery, I’d tell the stories.

But a lot of the stories are about people I love, deeply, who have deep emotional pain, with invisible, but still-fresh scars.

In fact, they have places that haven’t healed, that break open every so often, to reveal festering, nasty, oozing things that infect anyone around who tries to help.

The stories of how these happened is not one for a cheery optimist. I still think, in my cheerful idiocy, that maybe the wounds can be tended, they can dry up, and the person can be cured. 

But some of these hurts happened years before I was born. 

Some I watched happen when I was a child. If they haven’t healed by now, perhaps they aren’t going to.

To go and revisit the causes is to relive it.

And to write about the experiences that have crippled lives and wrecked generations is to reopen wounds yet again.

The stories, though, are how I got here.

And they are, as all good fairy tales, cautionary stories that cause the reader to reflect on good versus evil and the ways of the universe.

A four a.m. trip in a taxi in Paris, frantic and hysterical, dropped off at the back door of a crumbling wreck of a hospital built by Napoleon, with my companion’s screams and rantings drowned out by the sounds of the mental patients mocking us as we found our way to the emergency room.

My mother, calling from England to say goodbye -- she’d just swallowed poison since I was such a terrible daughter, and to please find a home for her cat.

Fires where the entire house went up. Over and over again. 

Fistfights at weddings, and at funerals. 

People I love in jail, and then out. 

In mental hospitals, and then out. 

Starting over, this time, with a clean slate and a fresh start. 

And this time, with the right medication. And this time, she’ll stop drinking. Or really leave him. 

Or will never burn down another house.

Floods where I lost everything material that mattered, only to find out that it was planned. 

Having to hear that someone I love is hurting. Again. And this time, jail or a mental hospital won’t help.

Watching the crimes that happened in 1946 come back in 1978. And again in 2001.

Being powerless to fix any of it.

Having to manipulate, and lie, and bargain with the devil to rescue children from those crimes. And watching some of the children thrive, and some sink slowly beneath, with the weights of the past too heavy to tread water any more, as I begged them to take life jackets or allow me to help. 

Pleading, begging, struggling to save anyone, and finally having to let them go.

No. I’m already crying, just from this. 

I have two boys full of glee and mischief, a handsome husband with a wicked sense of humor and a deep appreciation for me, and a baby girl who is the light of my life.

I might be able to write about how the shadows make me notice the light a bit more.

I know I can tell stories about how I do things differently than most people do, and why I think through my parenting more closely. And I might muse on how to parent without a map.

But the dark parts, the sad parts, the oozy stuff?

That’s not for a cheery optimist to get into.

Texting while driving is for amateurs

July 28, 2009

Really? People can’t drive a car while text-messaging, because it’s distracting, and it might be as dangerous as driving drunk?

I don’t buy it. First, because I’ve driven drunk, years ago, in my reckless and stupid youth, and I don’t remember being able to be sober most of the ride home, and then decide to only be drunk at stoplights. 

Yeah, I text while I drive. At stoplights, and when I’m stuck in traffic, and when I’m sitting in a parking spot. I will occasionally look at a text while I drive.

But honestly, as anyone with kids will tell you, texting is NOT the problem. You know what is?

1. Trying to retrieve a baby’s pacifier from the back seat floor, two inches beyond your grasp, while said baby screams and gasps for air because he’s so mad he lost the damned thing.

2. Baby seats that face backward, forcing you to be a contortionist while you drive to make sure the baby’s breathing/hasn’t choked/still has said pacifier/is asleep.

3. DVD players that are set up three inches beyond your grasp in the back seat, forcing you to eject/retrieve/insert a movie while doing above said contortions, while mediating a fight about which movie it will be and finding the DVD holder and cleaning off the smudges from the movie. Then the movie’s got scratches, and it won’t work, and you need to repeat above, still negotiating which movie will be played.

4. Handing out drinks and fries while moving, then opening ketchup with your teeth, handing it all the way back, and then collecting the garbage (and DON’T TELL ME you haven’t done this if you have kids in the back seat....)

5. Trying to call the doctor on the way to the ER while your toddler is in the back wailing and either barfing, bleeding or bent over in pain, while your husband yells at the other assorted children in the car.

6. Making out with a new boyfriend while driving. It’s been awhile, but let me tell you, it’s WAY more of a challenge than a text message. And don’t tell me you’ve never done that, either.

7. Eating a hamburger, holding a drink and answering the phone. Judging from the freeways, everyone does this.

8. Fighting with your husband over the latest phone bill/electric bill/issue-that-you’re-fighting-about-that-month. It’s way more stressful than sending a text, and believe me, if you can’t remember the drive home because you were too busy defending your point, you weren’t paying attention to the road.

9. Cats, dogs or guinea pigs in the car. Or a new box of chickens from the store. Or a rooster who won’t stop crowing.

10. Driving cross-country when you have the flu with an autistic toddler in the back who nurses every two hours and has a complete terror of the dark.

Texting? It’s at the bottom of my list.

Do I do it? Not really. Once in a while. Mostly at stoplights.

But if you’re going to outlaw texting, then rear-facing carseats, kids, husbands, handjobs and French fries while driving have to be outlawed, too.

That ought to make the roads a little safer.

Mr. and Mrs. Voldemort retire

Originally published July 18, 2009

See? You can’t judge people by their looks.

I know that, and yet I still haven’t gotten the hang of it.

I still think Mr. Voldemort looks sweet, and tender, and that he would be the kind of husband every woman dreams of.

And Mrs. Voldemort -- well, that’s not the greatest picture of her. She was beautiful and funny and incredibly witty, from what I’ve heard. She was tall, with huge boobs (everyone mentions this,)

 and could light up a room with her one-liners and zingers.

She lived in New York City, by herself, in an apartment in the village, in 1960. Not many women did that. She was a reporter and a fashion writer, and was apparently good at it.

He was, of course, an actor. And very good at it. Charmed the pants off everyone around him. Literally.

And yet here we are, fifty years later.

Together, they’ve created messes that spawn three generations, and that include prison, fraud, stays in mental hospitals, arson, stints with the mafia, identity theft, more prison, child neglect, three marriages, at least five children and maybe seven or eight, and the spending of LOTS of money. 

A game show prize of $50,000, spent in a flash. Alcoholism, and drug abuse, and murmurs of spousal abuse. An episode of America’s Most Wanted. A flight to the Bahamas, where there’s no extradition. A cross-country road trip designed to steal money in five states. Theft in a Paris apartment. Children in foster care in England.

A house burnt down in the Adirondacks. Another in California.

Theft from family members. Rediscovered children.

Polaroids of naked women in the shower. Stepchildren.

Attempted murder. More time in jail. Abandoned children. Children given up for adoption. Mistresses. Moves cross-country, in a fit of pique.

They separated in 1980. Fought bitterly until they finally divorced in 1994. Remarried ten years later.

And now, retirement comes for Mr. and Mrs. Voldemort.

It’s not pretty. But who thought this would have a happy ending? Voldemort does not go quietly, and the missus even less so.

There has been a car accident, and a broken pelvis, maybe, or maybe not. Allegations of guilt, and of blame, and of “He’s mean to me,” or “She’s awful.”

In theory, they’re growing tomatoes and working on plays and fixing up a house. In reality, you couldn’t pay me enough to spend a month under the same roof with them, although it would certainly give me enough fodder for my novel.

But the bad guy has to go out in a bad way, right? It almost wouldn’t be fair to see them live out their lives in peace and prosperity on a little farm.

But man, it’s still hard to watch. Easier to read the summation at the end of a fairy tale than to watch them get old, alone and unmourned.

What was it Captain Hook said to Peter, the good-looking boy who never grew up? “You’ll die alone and unloved, just like me.”

Perhaps the fictional Voldemort had the easier way out.