We pretty generally follow the routine. I was raised to do so. So, was my husband.
But, what does one do when the routine isn’t working? What happens when the way things have been done, since, like, FOREVER, is no longer producing the desired effect? At least not in its place and time, for a certain person. And what if that person is your child? And what if the routines are the grand institutions of public and private education? Thirteen years ago, neither one was working for us.
When faced with such a problem, what does one do to remedy the situation? Just sit there and watch? Or, take the bull by the horns, remove the child from the school system and begin to home school? Thirteen years ago, that was our nightly topic of conversation. And thirteen years ago, home school we did.
And today, thirteen years later, the day we have been moving toward for so long was here.
Tonight, it is over. Our home schooled students have had their first college interviews.
I decided to do this post today, when I read “I Am Done with My Child’s School,”by Jeanne’ from Sippy Cups and Booze. I was in agony reading the post and picturing the sad depressing situation, not to mention the life of her poor son. It’s scandalous what is done to young people in the name of education.
In our case, to give an example, the child had been writing both upper and lower case letters since they were three years and some months old. At a private school, we went for our October Parent/Teacher conference when he was in the fours class and were told he was a problem because he couldn’t write his letters.
“Wow!” I said, biting my tongue, “He’s known both upper and lower case for over a year.”
“Well, she said, “I’ve seen no evidence of that, what-so-ever.”
I replied, “That’s strange, as we went out to dinner last night and he wrote both upper and lower case on the place-mat at the table.”
“Well,” she continued, “It’s a shame I can’t look at the place-mat *snicker* to see that he can do them.” (Do you believe the snicker?)
“Oh, no problem,” I replied. “We have it right out in the car,” and my husband retrieved the place-mat to share it with the woman.
And. She. Said, “Oh! These are very good. Do you mind if I have this to put in his folder?”
That’s when I couldn’t hold back any longer.
“Let me get this straight,” I said, getting ready to build up to a crescendo, “You’re his teacher and have no idea he can write his letters, both upper and lower cases? And, your remedy for the situation is to put this place-mat from a restaurant in his folder?”
I mean, wouldn’t you think she would be motivated, at least in front of us, to work with him and see where the misunderstanding had occurred? No, it was “place-mat in folder.” Check in block. On to the next thing not to teach him.
She said something back to me, but it was so idiotic, I’ve repressed it. That incident was the first of many other peculiar situations finally leading us to home school. But, we lasted until the next year where, after thirty days in a public school kindergarten, we went to the Board of Education, took them out and never looked back.
Now, tonight, with it behind us, it was the best thing we could have done for this child that, years later, took first year Latin at age seventeen at the University of Maryland with sophomore to senior college students and got the highest grade in the class.
I have to wonder if Mrs. What’s-her-face might want to put THAT in his folder.
Why not? She didn’t teach him Latin either.
Don’t expect me to be nice.