Buried Treasure

We have been bored at my house lately, full of ennui, suffering from some sort of unscratchable itch. It’s not just Spring, or strep throat, or the fact that we’ve eaten way too many fish sticks. I don’t mind if my kids are bored some of the time – it’s a cue to be creative, to find a new book, to live a little and stop looking for entertainment. I do mind if my kids are bored with their schoolwork, all ego-related issues aside (we home school).Learning is supposed to be fun, I tell them (usually when we’re not having fun). When I’m bored, though, that’s a sign that something’s seriously wrong.

I’ve found myself too often rushing through the morning, wanting to be doing something else, not being present in the moment with my kids or myself. Then lunch time comes, and even though my children would love for me to light a candle and sit with them, I sit by myself at the big table and steal a few moments to read a book. And so I beat myself up—should I really be home schooling? Why am I doing this if I’d rather be doing something else? And what is that something else, anyway?

A wise teacher once asked me “What is your treasure?” What nourishes you, more than the air you breathe? What is most dear to your heart, what you would give to your children if you could offer nothing else? For me—I love learning and creating; I love immersing myself in the process and losing my goal-oriented self. I love the moment of brilliant coincidence where two pieces of the world somehow fit together into something new. And so I’ve realized—our school routine has been nourishing neither myself nor my children.

We do the math, we do our spelling, we do history and science. But what I need is the magic. I want the discovery, the surprise, the joy of coming across in a book something we just happened to have seen. Yet, at the same time, what about the workbooks, the checklists, the “What Your Child Needs to Know” books? Am I an ADD School-at-Homer, or an anal-retentive Unschooler? Do I need to add “magician” to my list of jobs? (I can’t even pull the wax out of my ears, never mind an educationally metaphoric rabbit out of a hat). But you can’t teach love – of learning, or anything else. The most you can do is offer it, and then if you’re lucky, hang on and go along for the ride.

It’s hard to let go and trust that my children will learn what they need to know without my ruthlessly planning and scheduling, or even to believe there’s a middle ground. What am I afraid of? That my children won’t end up making enough money? Won’t impress the cashier at the grocery store with their brilliance? Or is it that I’m venturing into territory that can’t be measured or quantified or boxed in terms of competence or success (theirs, or mine?) Why do we try and cram information into our children? Are we just afraid that our children are elemental, powerful creatures, capable of anything (unlike us) unless we bore them to death?

Maybe I’m a lazy control-freak, or a perfectionist with job-completion issues. But I have chosen to school my children at home and spare them any labeling or pigeon-holing, so I suppose I should extend myself that courtesy. We are officially winging it, learning (together!) how to enjoy life and let the magic come to us. Last week, we plowed through more of book 4 of the Narnia series (The Dawn Treader), and got to the part where Prince Caspian and the Pevensies encounter the Monopods, invisible one-legged hopping creatures. The very next day we visited the MIT Museum, and lo and behold, there was a video and construct of a robotic monopod, hopping around like a cross between an ostrich and a kangaroo. Yesterday we built an astrolabe and now we’re discovering trigonometry. How exciting!

The last time it snowed, my two-year-old Captain-Hook wannabe insisted on bringing his pirate treasure chest outside so he could bury it. But, but, but, I insisted….it’s cold, it’s almost dinner time, we were doing math, what about practicing our instruments? Fortunately, little can match the force of obsessed toddler, and I got his boots and his coat on and sent him out. My two older children and I watched from the doorway, giggling and smiling as he scooped pitifully small amounts of snow onto the chest with his little mittened hands. He came in, I got him undressed, and he promptly decided he needed to go dig it up. I tried to explain to him you’re supposed to dig up someone else’s treasure, then looked at his determined, utterly happy face and realized that maybe I was the one that had it all wrong. He dug, we laughed, then we all sat down with hot cocoa. He had it right. The good thing about digging up your own treasure is you always know where it is.

Written for next week's Groton Herald