The Fairly Odd Mother

I know a few homeschooling moms who, when faced with a child who will not cooperate, threaten, “If you don’t change your attitude / listen to me / do your work / (insert specific request here), I will call up the school and enroll you tomorrow!”

And, for many kids, that works like a charm.

For us, though, it does not work at all.

I know Belly doesn’t hate being home, but there are days when she’d rather get on the yellow bus with her friends and spend the day in a first-grade classroom. I can see her bounding off the bus at the end of the day, full of stories and papers, telling me which child she now wants to have a play date with that afternoon. She’d have a new best friend every week and would probably get in trouble for talking in class.

I’ve tried hard not to ‘demonize’ school. I tell her the hours are a lot longer than what she has at home, and that a teacher will not let her hang upside down from her chair while listening to a story. But, I don’t try to scare her into thinking school is “all bad”, or that teachers are mean. I know that for her, first grade would probably be pretty cool, and she’d slide ride into it easily.

I know all these things because we’ve been there, to some extent. Belly was in daycare by 18 months old, in two-day preschool by three and five-day preschool by four. The plans was that she was going to public kindergarten at five, and she’d be more than ready.

But, then, I started reading about homeschooling and thought it sounded ideal. Far from being isolating, it has opened our world to a new way of life, a new group of people, a new daily rhythm. I would never, ever do this if I truly believed it was harmful to my children either socially or academically.

And, yet, there are those days. . .days when we are so out of sync that I can barely stand to be in the same room with her. When a ten-minute math game turns into 30-minutes of torture. And, before I know it, I’ve said the words. . .

“I’m calling the school tomorrow!”

As if on a dare, Belly shoots back, “Do it! Go ahead!”, and then, a half-beat later, “I know you’ll never do it!”

Later, we’ll sit on the couch and lick our proverbial wounds as we talk. I tell her that, as a parent, I decide what is best for her. That someday she may go to school, but for now, we are doing things differently.

I vow to change my expectations. She vows to change her attitude.

And, on we go to the next day, optimistic that we will soon be in sync again.

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