The Very Worst Homeschooling Mom in the World

*Child-version TMI warning

Recently, we've made the decision to homeschool our children.  This post is not about why, or for how long, or even how we came to that decision.

This post is about my utter failure, and then subsequent triumph, to teach my then-3-year-old how to spell his name.

I became aware of the fact that I should probably be doing SOMETHING to educate my child in February of this year, when we went a cousin's 4th birthday party.  Silas, 3 at the time, couldn't tell you an A from a B, or that things such as letters existed.  He could sing the ABC's, count to 20, tell you all the colors of the rainbow (and even count to 10 in Spanish, the only time I'll ever be glad that Dora exists), but the concept of letters and them having meanings was completely foreign to him.  As I watched his sweet, bright cousin spell her whole name, I made a goal to teach Silas to recognize his name by the time he was 4.

I didn't want to spend any money on any sort of curriculum (come on, he's 3) so I decided to go about it the old-fashioned way: by the seat of my pants, no idea what I was doing.  I introduced Silas to letters-- we did puzzles and sang songs and did flashcards and read, read, read, read (we read A LOT in this house) but it just didn't seem to be clicking.  In March we reached the 1 month mark and he still couldn't sight recognize a thing.  I decided to pare down my ambitious goal and just teach him one single, stinking letter-- the letter "S."

I kid you not, we spent HOURS on the letter S.  We continued with our flash cards and puzzles.  We drew the letter S in various forms-- sidewalk chalk, shaving cream, markers and crayons and even using pull-apart Twizzlers.  I would think he was finally getting it-- I would see an "S" on a sign or in a book and would ask him, over and over, "Silas! What letter is this?!?"

Blank stare.

"You know it! It stands for... SILAS... it makes an "esssssssss" sound like a snake??"

Blank.

I felt like the very worst homeschooling mom in the whole, entire world.  How could I expect to teach my kids math (which I barely understand myself) if I can't even communicate the STUPID STINKING SORRY LETTER S?????

And then, one day in August, a month before his 4th birthday, a breakthrough.

Silas was in the bathroom, and I was doing something else upstairs.  He started yelling, loud and urgent:

"MOM! MOM! MOM! COME HERE RIGHT NOW MOM MOMOMOMOMOM!"

I thought he had fallen or cut himself or that he was drowning in the toilet, so I raced as fast as I could to the bathroom-- only to find him standing, pants down and half-naked, proudly next to the potty, pointing with his finger and a bright, excited look in his eyes.

"MOM!!! MY POOP IS AN 'S'!"

And... it was.

And, being the mother of boys that I am, I wiped his butt, and gathered him in a huge hug.
"IT IS! IT IS! I'm SO proud of you! I am SO happy your poop made an S!"

And then we said goodbye to the S, and flushed it away.

He learned the rest of the letters in his name within the next two weeks.  I owe it all to the potty.

A very proud Silas

Little House in the Iowa Cornfield, or, Farmer Girl, or, By the Shores of Lake Wandu

The actual Ingalls Homestead in De Smet, SD

For as long as I can remember, I've been a little bit obsessed with Laura Ingalls Wilder and her Little House  book series.  I started reading them in second grade, and haven't stopped since.  I still work my way through all of the books once every couple of years or so, and though I have probably read the books ten times each, every time I read them I love them a little bit more.  When I was in third grade (shout out to Mrs. Blin!) I even dressed up as Laura and made a little storyboard for a book report, sunbonnet and all. Recently, I learned that the brother of a dear family friend is the owner and operator of the Ingalls Homestead in De Smet, South Dakota, and I've made it a personal mission to get my family there for a trip ASAP.  My husband, who has never read the books, has a hard time understanding my enthusiasm for such a trip.  He doesn't get my pop culture (pioneer culture??) references every time there's a snowstorm and I tell him to tie a rope between the back door and the garage.  Anyway.

I think this lifelong love of the story of a pioneer family probably has something to do with my current obsession with homesteading.  If you're not familiar with homesteading, it's living pretty much like Ma and Pa Ingalls did-- being able to be self-sufficient and self-sustaining from your own home.  I love the idea of being able, if need be, to survive and thrive "off the grid."  Our belief that this may be a necessity, and that we could even attempt such a lifestyle, comes from a couple of things:

1. The belief that we may live through the Tribulation and/or Zombie Apocalypse.  Could be the same thing.
I like to say I'm optimistically Pre-Trib, but I'm not the world's greatest or smartest eschatologist.  Better to be safe than sorry, as they say.
2. I've watched a heck of a lot of Bear Grylls.  Pretty sure I could skin a sheep and use its layers of fat and wool as a sleeping bag.
3. I was in 4H.  If we do live through the Tribulation, I may have the Coggon Clippers to thank for teaching me how to sew, cook, and raise farm animals.  Head, Heart, Hands, Health, ya'll.

My family, mind you, is far, far, FAR from being true survivalists.  We don't have a bunker.  We are not currently stockpiling weapons.  We have electricity and satellite TV and smart phones.  But we are slowly moving towards the ability to go without them, if we have to.  We have a fairly large garden and I'm learning how to store seeds.  We are moving away from using any sort of chemicals in our home, and my husband said he'd build me a coop so we can get chickens (yay!!).  We live on a small acreage in the country, which allows us some freedoms in terms of having animals and space to grow things.  I learned how to can a couple of years ago and have spent significant time the past few summers adding our home-grown vegetables, jams and jellies, pasta sauce, salsa, etc. to our pantry.  We heat our home exclusively with a wood-burning stove in the winter, and are looking into getting a rain barrel.

Now don't get me wrong-- I love my air conditioning.  I am a pretty big fan of electricity, as it runs my treadmill and keeps my TV on and charges my phone so I can check who's cat is doing what stupid thing on Facebook.  But it's comforting to feel like we could survive without all these things.  Every time I go out to my garden to pick something, I pretend I'm Laura Ingalls and keep an eye out for wolves and papooses, with my trusty bulldog Jack (my yippy mutt Flufferbutt plays the part well) by my side.

I've always wondered what happened to Mr. Edwards.  I hope there's an exhibit on him in De Smet.

In case you're wondering, "Lake Wandu" is the name of a tiny farm pond about a mile from my house, and the closest body of water to us.  No idea who actually owns it.

Ma and Pa 

Laura as a young girl