There was that moment I knew I’d do it. When I knew the decision had been made to send him to school. I had vowed since my own girlhood to keep any children I birthed with me, at home, always.

But how much weight does a childhood self-promise hold when it’s simply the result of personal experience and home-culture and not that of, you know, being a parent?

It was that panic attack the day I looked through curriculum and couldn’t stop shaking and cried myself sick for hours.

Life looks different now that the castle crumbled and I realized that there is a beauty in the rubble and its name is freedom.

Freedom to choose and to follow and to lead and to do the things we know to do. For us.

So we signed the enrollment papers and prayed our hearts out and knew that this was good. For us.

 

It seems a silly conundrum to some – it’s just school after all and the point is an education, isn’t it? But it’s a final straw floating to the ground after the scarecrow of my ideals scattered to the wind.

Almost three years and you would think I’d be over that by now.

But I’m not.

 

So I took him to school. That oldest boy of mine.

And every day he jumps out of the car and my heart bleeds a bit and it isn’t only because I miss him.

***

My beautiful friend Heather is encouraging us to write freely and without over-thought. So I’m joining her and all the others who feel words in their souls.

 

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