Of Foxes & Farewells (an open letter)

 You weren’t allowed to peek inside.

 I’d been decorating the room for a month - secretly sneaking in an alphabet, a giant calendar, fun little music shakers, math manipulatives, a table, and chairs – but you and Don were not allowed to peek inside until that very first day of school.

 And when that day arrived, so began our Homeschool journey together.

Over the years, our family grew. Our classroom spilled over to invade every single space of our home, our yard, our life.  Books piled onto every horizontal surface, schedules taped to cupboard doors, a motto for education written in word art and hanging on the living room wall:

 “A true education begins with WONDER and ends with WISDOM”.

For a while, every subject was taught and led and supervised by me.  I sat by your side and traced letters with you, shaping the sounds aloud together.  My fingers followed the words on the page that you read.  We sang songs.  We memorized Bible verses and poems. 

We were tethered together.  Side by side.  Mom and son.  Teacher and student.

But as you got older, you became more independent, more confident, more capable and, soon, I was sending you off to tackle subjects on your own while I traced letters with your siblings. 

It wasn’t always magical. 

There was a lot of mess.  A lot of tears.  A lot of times when I had to speak words of truth and encouragement to you.  A lot of times when you had to speak words of truth and encouragement to me.

But the beauty of homeschooling is its flexibility; so your studies and learning ebbed and flowed around the broken, messy shape of our lives, our health issues, our schedules. 

It was messy.  But there was also magic.

You read books, wrote essays, multiplied algebraic expressions, coded.

But you also joined a homeschool hockey program, hiked, played in sport’s tournaments, joined in with co-op classes and school fairs, made new friends. 

And as you grew older, you needed my help less.  My supervision less.  My teaching less.  You were no longer tethered to my side, holding my hand to cross the street, asking for my assistance with every question. 

I still sit beside you to wrestle through coding problems or give advice on how you drive or discuss theological topics; but there are times now when you teach me.  (like:  How to use a phone without throwing it! )

You know, parenting is this delicate dance of holding on and letting go.  And as your parent and homeschool teacher of twelve years, I’m feeling the disquieting tug of this dance even more. 

I want to hold on.  To keep you by my side, in our homeschool bubble, and near.

But I want to let go.  To see you grow, learn, and soar.

And then yesterday, your little brother finished his read-aloud….a story of a boy and a fox…..and the final scene reduced me.

"No,” commanded the boy to the fox, “I don't want you to stay.  I'll always leave the porch door open, but you have to go."

It eloquently articulated the unsettled mixed-up feelings of parenting/ homeschool teaching….to want to hold on.  To need to let go.

So, my son, next year you will walk away from the VanHuisstede Homeschool Academy and, God willing, attend Grade 12 at a local public school.  It’s the next step that we’ve prayed over, agonized over, talked over, discussed over and over.

You no longer need me tethered to your side or holding your hand.  And, even though I kinda want you to stay, its time to go. 

Liam, I’ll always leave the porch door open, but you have to go.

Love always,

Mom