The Cates are accepting at their site.
This is my submission, and this is my why. One of them, at least.
Running, spinning, jumping. Twisting, leaping, laughing. Bumping, crashing, yelling. Snuggling, cuddling, loving. Breaking, investigating, wiggling. Apart-taking, apologizing, information gobbling.
This child. I knew, very early on, even as he was in the womb, that he was different. At least from our other two. I remember clearly, remarking to my husband, to our parents, that this child was wild. In utero, he moved exponentially more than our previous children. As soon as he could crawl, he required more, zipping across the floor on all fours. After he could walk, I started running after him. We were in for it. I just didn’t know what the it would be. He’s 5 now. I’m still running. But these days, more mentally, than with my legs.
He is not mentally delayed. Nor physically challenged. From all appearances, and any number of pediatric check-ups, he is perfectly normal, and exceptionally healthy. Thank God. But several, who have met him, family and non-family alike, very well describe him as “It’s like God said I’ve got the genetic material, smarts and creativity for twins. Or, I could slam it all in this one kid, and keep them (that would be his parents) hopping. Or, he is like twins or triplets, piled into one kid.” That. Is Blue. More than one child, crammed into one.
Of our three children, he is the only one who’s had an EEG, an EKG, a Cat Scan, a sleep study, and been rushed to the ER for head trauma. He developed something called BHS (Breath Holding Syndrome), which meant, when especially hurt and surprised, he would lose his breath in mid-cry, and pass out. If out long enough, he may have a seizure. Very frightening stuff, to find out it was all innocuous. But it was. Completely harmless. Just a little more about him that keeps us on our toes.
Parents have harrowing tales of struggles with children with all sorts of difficulties. Brain damage of all kinds. Physical retardation. Severe learning disabilities. So far, we have no specific diagnosis on our boy. We’re not looking for one. We know there is nothing delayed. Nothing that will clearly cause him any problems as he grows. If we help learn to control and channel his energy and wits. If anything, he’s ahead in many areas. There may be nothing with which to label him at all. Probably, there is not. I’m not anxious to find out if there is. Yet, at least. We know we’re blessed, but we often wonder if God is in his Heaven, getting a really good chuckle out of how we are dealing with this creation of His.
So what is difficult? What is challenging about homeschooling this child? He is, as previously stated, not challenged with Downs, or Spinal Bifida. Or Prader-Willi, or Autism. We do not have to help him overcome blindness, or deafness, or severe mental delay. Or any other number of extremely challenging and sometimes-heartbreaking diagnosis parents can receive for their children. Our child? He is just intense. Off the hook. Extreme in whatever he does. A mental and physical black hole for those of us around him the most (ahem, me.) Dare I say he borders on crazy? And I say that with love. But really. He is. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Admittedly, I’m a bit more fatigued than with our first two children. And 10 years older now. I may not follow through with discipline quite as quickly. Maybe I just yell (every now and then) everybody just be quiet and command children to their individual rooms instead of dealing with the issue at hand. However. It may not be my entire fault. Or his Dad’s. It might just largely due to his little genetic package. Healthy, bright, inquisitive. Intense. Nature or nurture, we’ll never know, but there does not seem to be one simple way to handle him.
Yesterday, he focused so intensely on the tile pattern on the floor of the mall (had to go, older brother had Karate there) we were leaving, he crashed right into a cleaning cart being pushed down the hall by a cleaning lady. Never saw her coming. He continued to be so intently focused following the pattern, that if he’d been alone (which, of course, he wouldn’t be, and won’t be able to be alone till he’s somewhere in the range of 22), the car about which I shouted would have hit him. This kind of focus can serve him well. He will spend couple of hours drawing a map of a land in his head. Still, quietly excited, finishing every detail. He builds Lego sets intended for ages 10 or higher, because he won’t give up, and can read much of the instructions, and there are pictures he can follow. But if he can’t get some of those little bricks to stick together the way he wishes, buckle up. A mighty tantrum could erupt in the blink of an eye. His potential frustration is as extreme as the wonderful things about him.
He is constant questions. Constant actually doesn’t cover it. And he’s a dog with a bone in getting the answers out. Mama, Mama, Mama, what is what is what is, hey, listen, Mama, Mama, Mama. So far, he has had only marginal success in learning the we do not interrupt each other rule, or being able to be satisfied with a finger held up to him, until he can be addressed. Typical 5 year old, you may think. Maybe. But in the areas his siblings were able to learn patience, at this age, he is severely strained. He has rapid-fire absorption of information; quickly assimilates and uses the information. Why is not good enough, but how does it work, on the inside, and how does it relate to other things. Seeing it means touching it. Getting in it if he could. He possesses a ridiculously hysterical sense of humor, is extremely passionate, rushes to profuse tears and pitiful sobs, and is over the top lovey. He spins in circles when he is trying to tell you something. He insists on keeping a box of wipies to use freely in keeping his hands clean when eating. If he doesn’t have the wipies, he’ll lick his hands until they’re pruned. Yes. I’ve heard of OCD. When I’m not looking, he tries to do things like suck his cucumbers, or taco beef and cheese up through a straw. He doesn’t know, for the life of him, why I correct this, and what in the world table manners are for. He’s just investigating. Before I could answer does a veggie peeler cut the cabinets? he’s taken a nice shaving chunk out of the side of the drawer. So. Yes. The answer to that question is yes.
All this background is just to try to set up what is necessary to deal with. And how we’re trying to do just that. He’s 5. We’re not worried about a curriculum. I’m not sure we’ll ever be. I don’t sit him down each day and give him a pre-school assignment. His personality has been something that has solidified unschooling in our home. He seems to be the epitome of a child that will thrive in learning being guided by his passions. And when he’s interested, he does not forget. Schooling him has become a discipline on my part. In trying to make myself available to get him information when he desires it. In being available to ditch my agenda, and end up in a model building experiment of the planets of our solar system. In not letting the intense fire of his interests burn out due to the business of life, and running a home. And in looking to curb the behaviors that are heart issues, and channel the behaviors that stem from his brain going ninety to nothing seemingly all the time.
What needs to be disciplined, and what needs to be tolerated and funneled into a healthy outlet? I do not always know, and that can be difficult. We end up giving him more freedom at this age, than his siblings had, in the things that are not value and character issues. And we’re praying when we do, it’s the right decision. He thinks is just great to cover himself in marker art, and will spend hours ensconced in the process. Fine. And I let him go all over town that way, because he likes it. For a good while, he really wanted his hair left long (so did I). So it was. So out in public, he sure could look like a wild, marker-covered, spastic elfin! Adults sure give me the eyeball, sometimes equating this with those wild, hippie, undisciplined, unsocialized homeschoolers, but they don’t know how we will not tolerate his speaking ugly to his brother, or throwing a Lego at his sister in frustration. Or stomping off in disrespect when we tell him something he doesn’t like. Or how much we laugh together.
This child has also solidified our belief in the calling to which we feel led. The beautiful blessing and the sacrifice of keeping them home. The thought of a teacher with 20 or 30 other children to teach, handling this one, among them, makes me just shudder. He might could acclimate, but at what cost? Would he maintain his passion? Would he get labeled? Would he have to deal with the constant frustration of not be able to fully explore his interests?
So in the end, how we handle schooling him has no formula. And he’s a great kid. Happy. Secure. This is the start we want for him, for all our children. And we want it to continue as they grow. We spend more time helping him mature and learn what kind of little person to be, more than early spelling, or basic phonics skills. And while we’re doing this, he’s picking up the other stuff, almost by the osmosis of living. Because he’s interested in life, and the skills that can accompany it. They all are. We help him learn to be more self-sufficient. Pick up after himself. Assist with laundry, dishes, the dog. Handle his room, bed and clothes. And when we’re cleaning up his closet together, we’ll find the big wall map, and he’ll spend three hours tracing and coloring states, writing in the capitals, and running cars on them; asking questions about places he’s never been. He’s learning something new every day with our guidance, our seizing opportunity, not by someone else’s lesson plan. We feel it’s this individualized approach to the world and all it has to offer that will enable all the best in him now to lead him to all the best he will prayerfully, one day be.
