Home Education Today

As homeschoolers, our family rarely rises before 9:00 in the morning. Today I wake at 5:45 a.m. to the incessant quacking of a duck – my youngest daughter’s alarm clock which I borrowed to ensure I get out bed at the needed hour. It does the trick. It’s still dark outside. My husband already left for work. My children silently sleep. Feed the meowing cats, let the dog out, make coffee, check the morning headline news online. I hear Hannah’s cell phone ring and she rustles in and out of her covers. I know she is awake and wonder how nervous, anxious or excited she is.

I made sure laundry was done yesterday so she would have her complete wardrobe from which to make a selection for today. I remember. I remember how important it was to wear the right clothes. I remember how judging peers could be and still are. Today is an important day for her on many levels and I want to provide her with as much support as possible, including clean laundry. She seems surprisingly calm after her shower and only dresses once instead of the usual three or so times. I imagine the thoughts turning around her mind. I give her a big hug. Our embrace is that shared mother-daughter moment that makes all the world filled with peace and beauty.

Not much else for me to do now but shower and throw on a skirt, shirt and shoes. I remind her to eat breakfast though doubt she will. Her stomach is probably a bundle of nerves. A last minute brushing of teeth and we are ready. I ask if she has her calculator, #2 pencils and the home school identification code needed for testing. One quick check on my other slumbering kids. All is well. It’s time to go to school.

The sun is surfing the horizon. We arrive at our local high school 15 minutes early, in time to slip into a visitor’’s parking spot. School buses discharge their charges, parents drive through the drop-off circle, students stake out turf for talking. We walk up to the guidance counselor’’s office. The door is locked leaving us to spend the next 10 minutes standing around and trying not to stare. The setting is vibrant and varied. I glance at Hannah and see how young and beautiful she is. I wonder how much she is missing.

We chat about this and that and speculate at what time the office will open, what time classes start. I observe the cafeteria is serving food and remark she might want to find something to eat. She emphatically declines. I realize this is probably a bit scary, this might be an intimidating environment for her. I comment perhaps she might like to try high school. We both know her present courseload is too heavy to add school to today. Silence sets in.

An adult approaches and inquires if we are waiting for someone. I explain my daughter is here to take the PSAT and she is homeschooled. She smiles and suggests we wait in the office until the guidance counselor arrives. We sit for only a moment, not long enough to reflect on the fact that Hannah has not taken a standardized test in ten years. A warm and welcoming woman greets us and Hannah rises to meet her. I look at my radiant child, hopeful that she is confident. I try to telepathically will her to relax. I know she feels pressure, perhaps I’ve set her standards too high. The counselor signals it is time for Hannah to join the 11th graders and dismisses me with, “You’re done now, Mom.”

It’s test time. I hurriedly instruct Hannah to call me on her cell when she’s ready to be picked up. I watch my daughter follow the leader. She’s out of earshot before I can say goodbye or wish her luck. So smoothly she slides into the role of a high school student. I ponder whether she would benefit from the high school experience.

I walk through the bustling hallway, out the front entrance, and head to my car and pass clutches of student cliques. I am pleased with the events of the early morning. I entertain several plausible scenarios, taking into consideration determining factors like this is her junior year, her GPA, college admission requirements, and how the school might handle her entrance at mid-year, to accommodate Hannah’s unspoken desire for first hand knowledge of brick and mortar high school life. These are the thoughts my mind is occupied by when a scene out of bad movie interrupts.

“He has a knife,” alerts a voice.

“No, he doesn’t,” responds another.

Shock sets in. I do not sense panic. I hear jesting. I am not close enough to accurately overhear the remaining conversations. I am ten feet away from my car, turn around, and scout out the source of the squeals – a group of five to six teens, boys and girls. I think. Is this serious? Should I say something? Columbine. It’s a knife, not a gun. It may be teenage bravado.

I am out of my element here. This is only the second time I have been in a high school building in the past, oooh, almost thirty years. (The first was a month ago when I registered my daughter for the PSAT.) These kids could not begin to fathom the irony of their words at this precise moment. I decide to do nothing. I take one more look as I open the car door and reflect. I’ve left my daughter in a building where a kid has, maybe kids have, knives or other violent instruments. I reassure myself she is safe to assuage my guilt. She’s not outside. She’s with an adult in a room filled with other kids undergoing testing. Nothing will happen. This is just one of life’s bad jokes.

I wait for her phone call. It should come anytime now. I am anxious to hear about her experience this morning. I also need to know that I am not a bad parent and she is safe and sound. I decide that I will say something when I pick her up. I want to observe how school officials receive this piece of information. Is the school desensitized to violence? Will shock and concern be expressed? Maybe this isn”t an environment my daughter needs to be a part of.

The phone rings. I hear her voice. Let me go pick her up. I’m glad we homeschool!