I am making breakfast serenaded by the locust chorus.

I imagine them tuning their legs (they rub their legs together, right?) not to the blousy end of summer but to the rising thrum of worry in my mind.

This lesson year will be my first coordinating three grades and I’m nervous. I want to give it my all and not get pneumonia this fall as I did last. My all will never be good enough, I know that now after 8 years of homeschool lessons. At the end of a block I will look with regret at what we never got to or didn’t jibe with where we were and think Balls, missed again.

A friend was over the other week and told me about her list of what was done rather than what was to be done. I am a weighted tug when I overplan. I see no possible path other than trudging through the churning waters. And that is what gives you pneumonia, my friends. So I will plan loosely and give myself the visual marker of a done list up on the chalkboard. I will zero in on the things that work and have those be our beacons for the week.

I hesitate to write about homeschooling in this space. It’s the tender hearted part of me and I know how the internet is. There are no doubts that homeschooling is the right path for our family but I am loathe to open my children up to all that is here through my shortcomings and worries. It is more of an account of a mother’s journey through homeschooling. The tattered sails of perfection, if you will.

On another note.

I am writing an essay called Happiness and the $1,000 washer to be next Quarterly Constitutional. Please sign up by clicking to your right. I will probably harangue you with more poetry and a recipe or two.


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