Being OK with doubt

Last night, at approximately 10:15 p.m. I had what I can only describe as a small-scale panic attack.

But let me back up.

Nick and I had turned in early for the night after weeks of staying up way too late to finish projects around the house. We were both ready for a good night's sleep.

Just before we turned out the light, Nick started to tell me about his trip to the playground earlier that evening with the kids.

It went something like this:

N: "You know, Liliana is dying to make some friends."

Me: "I know. It's rough, but we're still new here."

Him: "She introduced herself to some kids at the park tonight and they just didn't seem that interested in playing with her."

Me: "Oh. That's so sad. Do you think she should be going to regular school this fall instead of homeschool, you know, because she'd definitely make some friends in her class?"

N: "I don't know."

**Insert the panic attack part here.**

Me: "You don't know? What do you mean you don't know? I thought you really wanted us to homeschool?"

N: "I do. I just don't know, you know?"

He was having a doubt -- one little, but very valid concern.

In fact, his concern about social isolation is one of approximately 157 different doubts I've struggled with over the past several months as I've toiled over the decision of trying out homeschooling.

"Socialization" is at the top of the "cons" column of my pros and cons list with a big fat question mark next to it.

This week I had finally started to come to terms with what it means to be a homeschool family -- understanding that it doesn't have to come with weird stigmas or social differences.

Like Julie said so nicely here, it's just part of who we are as a family. It doesn't define us completely.

But because Nick had been a champion and cheerleader for homeschooling all along, it was hard for me to deal with his doubt last night.

So there I was. The lights were out and I lay awake for a good hour, again grappling with this decision and its implications for my very social 6-year-old who is a new girl in a new town without a real friend to call her own yet.

My wheels started to spin.

Maybe it's not too late to register for public school. We could still switch gears and just tell Liliana we've changed our minds.

What about the private schools? So many families in our neighborhood send their children to private schools. Maybe they aren't that expensive.

Can I return the hundreds of dollars worth of curriculum I've meticulously selected and ordered over recent weeks.

Will we get a refund on our homeschool enhancement program if we cancel?

I finally went to sleep, but when I got up in the morning, the question still loomed overhead.

I went to the computer and scoured all of the same Web sites about the local schools -- the ones I'd already pored over months ago.

And I was left with the same feeling I've felt before: It just doesn't feel right for her.

Traditional school is fine. There's nothing wrong with it. In fact, it can be great.

But it I've always been pulled to homeschooling: Teaching my own children in my own way; making our classroom part of our home; being able to take a field trip any day of the week without a schedule to adhere to; developing and sharing a philosophy for learning with my children that embraces their natural abilities and desires.

But I wondered. Is this all just a great fantasy I have myself wrapped up in?

I left the computer room with coffee mug in hand; doubts and thoughts still spinning wildly in my brain.

I walked into the room in our new house that we've been transforming into our school room -- our classroom -- and I saw Liliana and Calvin already at work with some sort of school play.

Liliana stood at the dry-erase board in her pink floor-length nightgown, where she had written out a sentence in purple ink.

A tousle-headed Calvin sat at the child-sized table with his own smaller dry-erase board, carefully scribbling out something that was meant to look like what his big sister had written.

Morning sunlight flooded in through the picture windows that look out onto our backyard.

Lili said: "Mama, I'm teaching Calvin his sight words."

Then to Calvin she said: "Good job. Look! I wrote a big A+ for you in red. That means you did a very great job!"

Calvin looked up at me: "Look Mama. I got an A+"

She was proud of him. He was proud of himself. And though I'm not sure what she was trying to teach him, or whether he actually learned anything of worth, I couldn't help but be proud of them both.

"That's great, you guys!"

In that moment, I saw something both beautiful and strange happening in my home.

I guess that's what learning is, whether it happens inside a school, at home or somewhere else entirely.

It's beautiful when a child discovers a new facet of this incredible world and figures out what to do with it.

The strange thing is that you never know what it's going to take to get any given child to make such a discovery.

We haven't officially started our school year yet, but here's the thing: I think it's already started without my knowing it.

In fact, it's been happening all along.

I don't know if homeschooling is going to be any good for us.

It might be a terrible mistake. But I have to try it.

I have to know if there's something to it, or if my worst doubts will come to pass.

Either way, we're going to find out and I have to be OK with both the successes and the failures.