Within the span of five years, I had three amazing boys. I thought homeschooling would be a completely natural next step. However, when my oldest, Devin, was of age to start school, my husband insisted I enroll him in kindergarten. He was certain that Devin needed more social interaction and exposure to new things. His brothers and I were teary-eyed at the prospect, but I knew in my heart that I needed to honor my husband as the leader of our family. Parents have to be united in their desires for their children or it creates a rift even the smallest child can sense.
I threw myself into the idea of public school. I talked about how fun it could be and things Devin could look forward to. I signed up to be the homeroom mother so I could be in his class as often as possible. How bad could it be?
Bad.
After six years of never even being sick enough for a doctor visit, Devin was sick constantly. He had earaches, colds, the flu, scarlet fever twice. You read that right. Until then, I was naive enough to think that scarlet fever died with the era of Laura Ingalls Wilder.
He wasn’t just sick, he was miserable. Excited to learn new things, he threw himself into his lessons, only to be held back by classmates who could not grasp concepts as quickly. He often sat in class with nothing to do but be homesick.
Meanwhile, his brothers were inconsolable. I tried more crafts and fun activities, but they would refuse to do them until Devin came home. They didn’t want him to miss out. But when Devin did get home, there was no jubilation and fun. He had become so withdrawn he didn’t want his brothers to hug him, and so overstimulated that he would go straight to his bed and lie there till supper. He didn’t want to talk or look anywhere but the floor, and rarely smiled. In short, he was a changed child.
I always told myself I wasn't raising them for Harvard, but for Heaven, and God took the schooling in hand. Click To TweetMy husband agreed the situation could not continue, and we decided to homeschool Devin the next school year. When summer came, Devin was clearly happier, when he would wake up and realize he did not have to leave home. But a constant dread hung over him: dread that he would be forced to go back to public school. Nothing we said could convince him otherwise.
When it was time to start our first year homeschooling, I was desperate to do something to take away his fear. We went to the store to buy school supplies. I told him he could get anything he wanted to make our school fun: glitter glue, watercolor paints, markers. The public school list had specified only generic items so everyone’s would be the same. Devin picked up a package of Batman pencils and looked at me. I nodded encouragingly, and there was a sudden spark of realization in his eyes. He really didn’t have to go back.
Clutching his pencils Devin told me, “Last year I was like this.” And he slumped his shoulders and hung his head, a dejected look on his face. “But this year I’ll be different,” he added. “This year I’ll be like this!” He threw back his shoulders, and lifted his head with a huge smile.
I could not have said it any better. And, yes, I cried right there in Walmart.
I know this is a drastic case, and that public school is not a trying ordeal for all children. I survived it! But for someone like my son, it was enough to break his spirit and wreck his health. Homeschooling was just what the doctor ordered for all my brood, a realization that was solidified when we found out my youngest was dyslexic. I remember all too well the labels that can fall on those who are different in public school.
And so the years flew by, and boys turned to men that surpassed me in height, faith, and character. I always told myself I wasn’t raising them for Harvard, but for Heaven, and God took the schooling in hand.
And there they go: heads up, shoulders back, with a ready smile for the world.