Homeschooling, with frustrations, pride, love

The school bus stop is in front of our house - ours, of all houses.

As the kids outside clamber up the bus steps, our boys press against the kitchen window, intently watching. I want to end this ritual, but it would be like snatching an exotic postcard from an inmate, denying them that glimpse of a world foreign to their life as homeschoolers.

"What do you have against the school district?" my mom has asked more than once. "It's one of the best in the state, isn't it?"

I imagine my wife and I must seem like a couple sitting down at the Four Seasons Fountain Restaurant only to eat their own bagged lunch. Eccentric, sure, but even more: wasteful, insolent, perhaps offensive in a Mommy Wars (or School Choice Wars, or whatever Wars)-tinged way.

However, homeschooling three boys ages 3 to 11 has proven far more unassuming for us, calling to mind not so much politics as pajamas: math done in pajamas, writing in pajamas - on the floor, on the sofa (rarely at the table). Every day can be wear-your-pajamas-to-school day.

Like our dress code, the word itself is flexible: "I did five homeschools today," my oldest son might announce after finishing a string of assignments. Its elastic boundaries include the weekly co-op where we have "normal" group classes with other homeschoolers - the one in Bryn Mawr and the one in West Philly - as well as the mass of kids, teen and toddler alike, happily playing Gaga, strangers only five minutes ago.

Having graduated from public schools ourselves, my wife and I began homeschooling as a modest year-to-year DIY experiment, with the school district as our safety net. The goal was never about sheltering the kids as much as giving them enough of a foundation - academically, relationally, spiritually - to eventually navigate the world of teen hookups and overachievers on Adderall.

Yet because of the weekly battle of wills, it's often hard to see progress, let alone remember that this is the stuff of character development. How quickly the boys can go from impressing us to infuriating us probably says as much about us as about them. And how many days I'm more bully than coach is best left unsaid. When you have a son - convinced he doesn't know something - and a dad - certain everyone just spent an hour covering it yesterday - battle is all too frequent. Humility is universally difficult, and grace universally called for.

Every so often, my wife asks the boys whether they would like to attend regular school.

They pause. It's hard to guess their thoughts: Is this a trick question? Does Mom need to work to pay the bills? Will it be like Diary of a Wimpy Kid?

"Mmm . . . not really."

Either way, they (and I) seem relieved to not have to decide and face the unknown.

For how much longer, I don't know. Whether it's when they head to high school, or leave for college, the day will come when they're going to board that bus.

I fear I may never be able to give them enough for that day - or the next day, or the days beyond. But perhaps that's not really my job. Perhaps I'm just to teach them enough, love them enough, parent them enough today.

I better go get ready.

Did you make pancakes on Sundays? Or drive cross country together?

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