What should my homeschool look like?

I get asked about homeschooling a lot.  Many people have entered my home for one reason or another, and almost immediately asked, “Do you homeschool?”  I used to be one of those people, curious about this alternate universe and wondering if I could, or should, live there too.  What would it look like?  How would I know if I was doing it right?

When I decided to homeschool, I went looking for answers.  I was quickly tempted, disoriented, then discouraged by Pinterest searches.  It was full of contradictions.  Everyone claimed the best schedule or curriculum or method or blog or room layout or supply list.  I learned I needed less suggestions, not more.  One or two mentors was better than ten or twelve.  A straw, not a firehose, is the only way to drink in homeschooling.

Plenty of online strangers were more than happy to tell me the right way to homeschool.  But when I asked the mentors whose opinions I most value about curriculum or classroom furniture or daily schedule, their answers seemed nebulous. 

And now, as a mentor myself, I know why.

Because schedules and curriculum and classroom setup may seem like the logical place to start, but they’re not.  Not only that, but they are subject to change.  And they are unique to each family.  They were not the formula for successful homeschooling that I was searching for.

So what is?   What will make sure my kids get a quality education?  Everyone says to do what’s right for your family, but how do I know what’s right for us?

Start with your why. 

Pin down not how you’ll do this homeschooling thing, but why you’ve decided to do it in the first place.  Why you want it, why you’ll keep going when it gets hard. 

Then figure out your philosophy of education. 

Then look at your children (and yourself) as people, as learners.  How do they learn best?    What are their strengths?  What are yours?

Then write your mission, and a vision will slowly materialize.  Get clear on your why and on your commitment, and the how will take care of itself.

I remember wanting so badly to feel solid in the curriculum, schedule, and homeschooling method that would be right for us.  But the truth is, they will always evolve.  Just like everything else in parenting, the minute you think you have it figured out, it changes again.

But that won’t sound so scary after a while.  Because you’ll slowly realize what really makes a homeschool a homeschool. 

I have found that when the environment, the role model, and the relationships are sound, my children’s learning follows.  So the longer I homeschool, the less I worry about and research curriculum, and the more I work on myself and my relationships with my kids.

As Charlotte Mason famously said, “Education is an atmosphere, a discipline, a life.” 

Everything you think you know about school and education will crumble almost immediately when you begin homeschooling.  It will put your flaws and shortcomings under a microscope.  And it should.  Because homeschooling isn’t just for your kids.  It’s for you.   You will be forced to rethink your beliefs, broaden your views, and redefine things you thought were set in stone.  Just as we want our kids to learn to do.

Your children will learn exactly what they are supposed to, sometimes because of—and sometimes in spite of—your best efforts.  And a more beautiful, more compassionate, more intelligent you will rise from the ashes.  

Your only enemy is fear.  And your fears are imaginary.

So let your goal be not to mold your children a certain way, but to allow your children to surprise you.  Choose the child over the lesson.  Run with your strengths, and have the courage to let them run with theirs, no matter what it looks like.

Homeschooling will be nothing and everything like you imagined.

Be willing to surprise yourself. 

Because you will.

Process

My son was five years old.  His two little brothers and I ran, breathless, to keep up with his endless quests for knowledge.  I provided endless strewing and modeling.  Anything I threw at him, he'd absorb.  He split light, built a telegraph, raised a butterfly, read chapter books silently, and memorized nature encyclopedias for pleasure.  At night, we'd lie in bed and read E.B. White's The Trumpet of the Swan.  This was his kindergarten year, though I never told him that.

Our homeschooling success hinged upon two things: a rich, authentic learning environment, and my silence.  He seemed born knowing how to drive his own education, and my early attempts to require any sort of script-following in the name of standards or learning outcomes were unnecessary at best and damaging at worst.  

I hadn’t planned on homeschooling, but the nearer he got to school age, the stronger and stronger became my instinct not to send him.  It was undeniable and slightly terrifying, and I had to dig deep to figure out why.  I had to define for myself what school and learning really were and examine their relationship.  (If you haven’t done this for yourself yet, I recommend you start now.)

The main reason I chose to homeschool him was to protect and nourish his holy curiosity.  I had to come to terms with the unsettling irony that sending him to school would sabotage his learning and his identity as a learner.  I do not think this is the case for all children, but it is unmistakably true for him.

Although my conviction of this was clear and solid, it took some time and some work before I would learn to release my self-imposed restrictions and root out the limiting public-school-absorbed beliefs I still held of what a school could look like.  And of course, I had to face my fears.

The times I am least effective as a parent and educator are when I react to the fear of being different or trying to please somebody else.  My mama-bear instincts and experience are strong enough to now to keep such fears in their cages.  But I was a new, fiercely dedicated homeschooler who was determined to get it right, and every time I hit a bump in the road, I came face to face with those fears.

When his progress wasn't steady in a particular area, or if we hit a wall, I worried I was doing it wrong.  Trying to push him up and over a hurtle did nothing but frustrate and distance us.  Even my offers to let him sit on my shoulders to get a better view were rebuffed.  I laugh now to think that steady progress and no obstacles should be either possible or desirable hallmarks of a quality education—homeschool or otherwise.  But at the time it felt like the goal, and while I may not have reached it, I had to at least outdo the public school system.

I know now that there must be walls to climb for growth to happen, and growth is the real education.  My son showed me time and time again that he had to climb over the walls himself.  I learned that my job was to provide him with the tools he’d need and get out of the way.  He’d build and climb the ladder.

We had been reading about animals and food chains, and I thought it would be fun to create a mural and hang it on the low wall in our foyer.  (Yes, we had a foyer where we lived.  That is a story for another time.)  I cut a long piece of paper from our easel and handed my son a roll of teal, patterned washi tape to secure it to the wall.  I envisioned the hanging of the paper to be a quick, efficient process, which would be followed by hours of enjoyable, collaborative mural-making.

My son had other ideas.

He was taking much too long.  Instead of just taping each corner of the paper as I had expected (but not instructed), he seemed to be intending to tape the entire perimeter of the ten-foot-long banner.  His face fell and the light in his eyes dimmed as I lectured him about wastefulness, took the roll of tape and walked away.

It took me maybe sixty seconds to come to my senses.  I was no poster child when it came to efficiency or thrift.  I radiated hypocrisy, and stung with shame.  I wondered how I had missed the mark with my vision of this learning project.  And then I realized it had been my project, not his.

I approached my crestfallen child, still kneeling on the ground beside the unfinished work I'd snatched from him.  I crouched down, looked him in the eyes, and said, "I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have done that.  Tape is meant to be used.  Use all you want."

He seemed to re-inflate the moment my respect for his work returned.  "Thank you, Mommy," he said, and resumed his process.

The mural hung there for months, with only a few sparse pencil sketches my son made at my request.  (I suppose if it had been that important to fill the paper with the colorful animals and habitats of my imagination, I would have drawn them myself.)  But they were surrounded by a vibrant, painstakingly-applied border—the real masterpiece.  My project had fizzled, but his was complete.  Authentic, hard-earned, and beautiful.

Ice cream in the sun

More times than I can count, I've watched my child's learning evaporate in a matter of moments.  Its fate is sealed the moment I think it needs to be controlled or quantified.  And that thought comes from fear.

Fear I'm doing it wrong.

Fear I have to prove something.

Fear he'll be behind.

Fear someone close to me will disapprove.

Fear I'm not enough.

I am no stranger to fear.

I used to make it ruler.  But I see it differently now.  Fear is only a weed, and has the power I give it.

So instead of fretting, stressing, or crying when I see a weed pop up, I simply put on my gardening gloves and pull it out.

My child's learning is not my job.

I'll say it again.  My child's learning is not my job.

It's his, of course.  And he knows how to do it, all by himself, and he will if the conditions are right.

My job is just to tend the soil.  Make sure there's enough light and water for him to soak up as he pleases.  (Trying not to under- or overdo it, of course.)  Pick up litter if I find it, and throw it away.

And no matter how rampant the weeds, the process is the same.  Put on my gloves and pull each fear by the root, one at a time.

As time has gone by, I've learned to pull them sooner.  To weed every day instead of once or twice a month.  The funny thing is, I no longer dread it.  I actually enjoy it.

Because I'm hooked on growth, you see.

Learning is not manufactured.  It cannot be forced.  It can be trusted.  It can be crowded out by fear.

So tackle your own fears, and your child will grow in all the best ways.