When Neither Answer Feels Right

I sit here at a quiet table. A jar of pencils not being used. A homeschooling schedule no longer being followed. An empty house way too quiet and cold.

I came in an hour ago from a walk alone. The house is vacant. Sure, there’s always laundry to fold and there are always dishes to do. But, oh, how those actions feel meaningless compared with spending all of my hours every day with my sweet 10-year-old.

Tears rolled down onto wet plates as I tried filling the air with something light – a random playlist called “Parisian Cafe.” If anything is dissonant it’s a festive accordian juxtaposed with loneliness.

Now I sit at my computer, Coldplay in the background, turning to writing as my catharsis.

Today is the first full day we are apart. He’s back in school.

A month ago, we took him out per his request. He loves people, variety, activity, communication. But the conscience in him brought him home from school every day telling us he needed to homeschool – that he was ready to work a lot more, a lot harder; that perhaps his classmates weren’t quite ready yet after all the COVID months.

When we first heard school would happen safely on campus, we rejoiced – the kids will see humans again, have routine again, feel normal-ish again! When asked to switch gears and bring him home, we mulled it over a good while. We gave it a month and his request didn’t change. How can you ignore a social, school-loving child when he asks to come home?

We listened.

I shifted gears; made a schedule; sifted through resources and gathered the best ones. I brought him home and our kitchen table became our place. We dove straight into education, diligence, and consistency. And loving enjoyment of one another.

As cozily gung-ho as we were, there was an aching hole we couldn’t just ignore – people. The forsaken chance to see them all day, every day.

The sadness always happened on our morning walk. Just the two of us walking in big, open, quiet places – meadows, beaches, trails – while all the kids he knew were convening and interacting in those same moments at school.

We cried together on the windy shore. We talked about our feelings as we walked arm in arm along the beach. We hugged each other as the rain fell on us through the tree-lined trails.

His spot had been passed to another waiting child. We would need to enjoy every moment together for the gift it was.

Two weeks into homeschooling, he and I both still felt deep loss for him. For his coveted spot in one of the only schools open. For his friendships put on pause. For opportunities to grow in ways we couldn’t simulate at home. Quietness is exponential in COVID times – there are no other gatherings but school.

Hoping to leave options open for the near-ish future, we humbled ourselves and asked to be informed if a spot in his class were to open again, knowing we could be seen as crazy.

Soon realizing that a mournful neuropathway was forming in us both, we decided that we would no longer talk at length during our morning walk about what he was missing out on. We would fill that time with attention to wonder, awe, and discussion. We brought along The Book of Questions for Kids and asked each other probing psychological questions, which led to bigger and wider topics of all kinds. We never ignored our feelings when they came up; we decided to express them without wallowing in them too long.

Richness ensued not only in our studies but in our walks as well. Our days were lovely. We thoroughly enjoyed each other’s presence in every minute of every day, fully committed and devoted to learning math together, editing paragraphs together, writing together, reading together, frisbee-ing together, talking together, eating and watching documentaries together, listening to audiobooks and doing art together.

Together – that’s the key word in all of it. A sweet, happy, ever-enjoyable boy, and I had him all to myself. It became a gift I never thought I’d have again. We had settled into a wonderful groove and were fully immersed in it.

Then a spot opened up. Now we had to decide which path to take all over again.

For his sake, I felt elated. He had cried on those beaches, clenching his little arms around me saying, “Mom, a spot will never open again this year. I’ll never get to go back,” chest heaving and body trembling.

He asked me not to reply right away. Surprised, I soon ascertained that he was protecting my emotions. Always so sensitive to others’ feelings, he didn’t want to jump at the chance in case it were to hurt me. I told him I loved him so much; I would never fault him for making that choice; I want what he needs, not what I want.

A minute later he said, “Say yes, Mom.” And just like that, our lives changed again.

This first day alone is more than nostalgic for me. I fully realize that the gift of one full month one-on-one with him just may be the last time in my life that I get such an experience.

Deciding whether to homeschool is heartwrenching, really – you either give your kids up to allow for all of the growth experiences they can’t get at home, or you wallow in the love you experience together while schooling at home, taking full advantage of that gift until you have to release them someday into the world.

I long to have us back. To sit down and spell vocabulary words. To talk through word problems in math. To memorize where countries are. To cuddle and read some of the wonderful books sitting on the coffee table.

His first time back was a half-day at school on Tuesday, and he came home and started quietly building LEGOs in another room. He didn’t have the exuberance I expected; he was very quiet. After awhile, out of the blue, he said, “I feel like I’m being torn apart.”

“You mean because you want keep doing school at home with me, but you also want to go to school?”

“Yes.”

In this moment, I know what I want for us, but I truly don’t know what’s best for him.

In the meantime, I’ll just have to take it one lonely hour at a time as my heart adjusts to yet another new normal. My gift to him is everyone but me.