better days.

Monday was not a stellar homeschool day.

I had a schedule.

(I’ve always had a schedule, but this year I have a planner – a spiral bound, blank squares across a page – kind of planner.)

And I stuck to the schedule.

At all cost.

We didn’t finish school until four p.m.

I made certain every tiny pencil-drawn square on my planner was checked off.

We accomplished every goal – lofty or minute – which I had previously planned.

All math.  All writing.  All science.  All narrations.

And no one in our house had a really great day.

When I was vacuuming up the school room from the mess my children had made …..

and there seemed to be mess everywhere that day …..

I felt as if some giant school supply store had vomited all over our house.

No – not a school supply store – more like Goodwill’s going out of business sale.

I was vacuuming up the bird seed from those birds – who are indeed messy pets – and Mosely put her hands over her ears.  Mosely – ever sensitive to loud noises.

Truly – ever since she was a non-verbal toddler – the child has disliked high volume noises.  Kind of funny – kind of crazy.  Her standard and predictable responses sometimes make me want to make a loud noise.

She asked me in a pained voice with a pained face, “When will you be done vacuuming?”

And what I heard was, “You’re loud while you’re cleaning up our mess.”

Something clicked.

Or exploded.

Something small and ugly and unattractive blew up right inside of me.

Detonated.

I shouted – over the noise of the vacuum cleaner – not bothering to turn it off ,  “Then you can finish vacuuming the mess.”

It sounded as good then as it does now.

Super mature.

Super kind.

She looked at me – brown liquid eyes wide – questioning my seriousness.

I was serious.

I handed her the vacuum.

It wasn’t pretty.

It wasn’t lovely or kind.

I knew asking a perfectly capable nine-year-old to complete a vacuuming task was fine, of course – but my manner was all wrong.  All full of ill-intent.  Not helpful.

So.

There we were – at odds.

The day progressed.

All day long it seems I found myself calling Bergen’s name.

“Come back inside, son.”  “Where is Bergen?”  “Bergen, did you finished your primer?”   “Bergen, where have you been?”

I had a strong conversation with my son – my eight-year-old third grader  – about traditional school and homeschool.

About how in traditional school there is no escaping, no swinging on the rope swing in between subjects, no wandering off.

And I even suggested – for the first time in my homeschool experience with this little man – that perhaps traditional school might be a good exercise for  him.

Another non-highlight of my day.

His little eyes filled with liquid.

I was winning prizes and feeling awesome all over the place.

And all the kids who weren’t in ‘trouble” that day were certainly watching the spectacle with growing alarm.

Fine, fine day for Wildwood.

That was Monday.

The day eventually faded to night and merged right into the next day.

Tuesday.

I slept a bit later than normal.  I allowed kids to sleep a bit later than normal.

Two factors that can occasionally set me off from the words “good morning”.

But I woke with a strong determination to not have a repeat.

To breathe.  To not end my day disliking me and knowing that my kids had every reason to dislike me a little too.

After breakfast – a later breakfast where we enjoyed muffins and dad’s coffee (them, not me) and a spontaneously read Walt Whitman poem – we headed out and down the driveway for a walk, despite the fact that there didn’t seem to be time.

We found golden rods. The last of the wild white daisies.

We found silence and birds and gravel and leaves under foot.

We found peace and smiles and one another.

We found what nature always has to give – hope.

We made a bouquet to set on the kitchen table with my lovely new table runner.

We’re later.

We’re slower.

We needed to include a major baking day among the school work as well.  Molasses cookies.  Chocolate chip cookies.  Snickerdoodles.  Each batch baked by an individual child alone for a friend’s prison ministry.

And yet.

Somehow …..

At 12:59 I checked the clock – not exactly on schedule – hadn’t been on all day – but somehow ….

when I consulted the spiral bound planner it appeared as if most of our school work was being accomplished.

It was almost like magic.

Bergen had been working all morning without delay and without complaint.   No struggles over copywork.  Zero complaints about math.  The boy baked chocolate chip cookies with visible pride.

When he finished his chores, he stopped to hug me.

I embraced him and held tight.  I told him I was proud of him – for staying on task and for focusing and for being obedient.

He grinned at me like he does and said, “I would be a sad boy if I went to traditional school.  I would miss you.  And I would miss being home.”

If I have to repeat a day from this week so far, I pick Tuesday.