Anno's Mysterious Multiplying Jar

This skinny book, Anno's Mysterious Multiplying Jar, is deceptive. It looks like a little-kid book, but it holds a wealth of information. From these 44 pages, my kids learned and understood - in 15 minutes - the basic concept of factorials. It held all three of my children enthralled ... even the oldest, who at the time was 12, and the youngest, who was 8.

The illustrations are luxurious, and the author has a way of explaining math. Anno's books are a delight for the eye and the brain, and if you can find them (many are out of print and sell for big bucks) - any of them - buy them!

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If you liked this post, you might enjoy "Running the Numbers"

What We Give Our Kids

So what's our biggest goal as parents?

Tough question. Obviously, the answer will be different for every parent, but one answer that sticks out for me is to raise my kids so that they don't need me anymore. That's what we're all striving for, isn't it? To raise our kids so that they'll be capable, happy adults?

To that end, here are some of the things I want to give my kids:

--the strength to do the right thing, even when it's hard

--the ability to know what the right thing is

--the stamina to be respectful, contributing members of society

--the courage to pursue that which fulfills them

--enough experience in life to learn what their passions are

--enough knowledge to be able to pursue those passions

--the respect to figure these things out for themselves

--and lastly, (and most importantly?) the ability to think for themselves

There are surely others, which I'm sure I'll think of five minutes after I post this.

You'll notice that there are some glaring omissions from this list, that many of you will be surprised to see, especially since we homeschool.

Here are some things that I'm not overly concerned with (but if they happen, that'll be okay too):

--my kids' being the "best" at something, whether it's winning first place in a national competition or beating their friends in a neighborhood game of soccer (having them be pleased with their performance is good enough for me)

--my kids' entering a career that's financially lucrative (I'd love them to be financially prosperous throughout their lives, but not at the expense of their happiness - I'd rather them be poor and fulfilled than rich and miserable)

--my kids' getting into the "best college" (yes, they'll all go to college and hopefully graduate school, but the more research I do the more I realize that the particular undergrad school has little to do with success throughout life)

--my kids' being formally recognized as academically "gifted," whether through such a program as Duke's Talent Identification Program or as a National Merit Scholar (sure, those would be great, but they're not necessary - who will recognize my youngest child's giftedness in humor, my daughter's giftedness in connecting with young children and elderly adults, or my oldest son's giftedness at memorizing vast amounts of trivia? Do those gifts merit any less admiration?)

--my kids' following the normal path (whatever path is the one that will take them where they want to go ... that's the one they should follow)

--my kids' "fitting in" (I'd rather they be comfortable in their own skin, value their unique characteristics, and laugh every day)

More than anything, I want my children to approach every day with joy, live a life of fulfillment, and have a packed house at their funerals.

image of purple passion by PinkMookse from here, image of "think go live be" by southerntabitha from here

The Mock Day: The Next Day

I love unexpected results. 

When T decided he wanted to try a mock school day yesterday, G didn't want to have a thing to do with it. His determination to homeschool has remained unwavering since we began this journey four years ago. And that mock day was a little too close to the real thing to be comfortable for him.

So today we sat outside on this hot spring day and talked. We talked about his worries about his siblings, his expectations for himself, his perceptions of what my expectations were for him, and what he wanted out of life. 

Yes, we've talked about all these things before, but today they had an immediacy to them that we hadn't experienced in quite a while. S and T were inside reading The Lightning Thief to each other, and I was hanging clothes while we talked, so we had an extended period of meaningful discussion. 

How many parents can say that they have the ability (or desire) to sit and talk at length one-to-one with their almost teen, and do so regularly ... and have it be a truly pleasant and enjoyable experience?

I must be one of the luckiest moms in the world.

Unexpected results. Unexpected pleasures. I'll take 'em.

The Mock Day

Last week I heard those dreaded words that every homeschooling parent fears ... "I might want to try school." This from T, just about to turn 9. 

I can't blame him. Virtually every kid's book highlights the escapades and camaraderie of school friends, making school sound like a glorious adventure book, with a new chapter to be read and experienced every day. In addition, homeschooled children are bombarded by society's expectation that to be "normal," kids must be educated in the public school system.

Obviously, parents who homeschool don't make that decision lightly, and the vast majority are just regular folk who want what's best for their kids. They usually do tons of research about it before jumping in and put in lots of time to make it work for their kids, so for their kid to think that school might be better is ... well ... a bit distressing.

But this post isn't about why we homeschool. It's about our mock day. Interestingly, S decided to try it with her younger brother, so it made for a full day. Mind you, they spent their first few school years in a variety of private schools, so they have a good idea of what a classroom setting is like.

Here in our local school district, elementary school starts at 7:45. Usually at that time, my kids are dozing on the couch, waking up slowly, after being dragged out of their beds at 7:00. We don't really get started until well after 8:00, and sometimes closer to 9:00. But this morning, I get them up at 6:45, as I am determined to follow the school schedule rigidly. (After all, the school watches the clock, so for this to be a true representation [or as close as possible], we need to follow the school's schedule.) They had to be dressed, with shoes on, and in their seats (two desks set up in our gameroom in front of a giant whiteboard) no later than 7:44. So far so good.

We spend the Morning Announcement time (7:45-8:00) talking about how our day will go. Last night, I printed out a bunch of information from our school district - things like class schedule, curricula, worksheets, examples of science projects, book lists and reading logs, and other things like that. (If you noticed that I didn't make a blog post last night, that's why.) We talk about how the normal school day is run and how we will follow it as closely as possible. I also assure them that I am not going to skew the day to make it distasteful; that won't give any of us any real information. I want to make this day an example of our "best scenario," asking them to imagine that each other is their best friend and that I am a really nice teacher (a real stretch, I know). 

They are eager.

So the day begins with each kid sitting next to his/her best friend, cheery smiles on their cherubic faces, in the class of the nicest teacher in the school. I want them to look at this day as how good public school gets for a typical mid-year, non-testing, non-party day. (For what it's worth, our district's schools are ranked consistently in the top in the country, so a good day there is a good day anywhere, even if we are in Texas! LOL)

I remind them that this is a real school day, so they need to raise their hands to talk, ask permission to go to the bathroom, and stay in their seats unless I allow them to move about the room.

Math is the first subject, an hour and a half. T lasts 10 minutes into it before he starts complaining about how his butt hurts, how tired he is, and how long the day is going to be. But he soldiers on. After all, he realizes, this is his idea. We just finish the lesson in the time allotted (this takes each of them twice as long as normal, since one is waiting while the other is doing, just as they would in school), when it's time to move on to Language Arts. I have them do a minute or so of jumping jacks, stretches, and jogging in place just to get the blood to their brains. When they get a bit out of control, I remind them that they wouldn't be able to do that in a class of 25 kids. 

LA lasts an hour and a half. One of the books on the classroom reading list is Little House in the Big Woods, so that's what we start with. We take turns reading, have a rousing discussion about life in the 1870s in the Wisconsin winter, and then move on to LA "fun" worksheets (puzzles, word games, etc.). At the end of the LA period, they put their unfinished worksheets in their homework folders alongside their math homework and their reading logs.

It's now 10:45, and the kids are starving, restless ... and rapidly working toward cranky. By this time on a regular day, they would have done a number of individual activities and be working on their first snack of the day. Instead, T is trying to lie down at his desk, putting his head in his hands, and sighing and moaning under his breath. To take their minds off of food, I run them through another minute of in-place exercise.

On to "Specials." This could be art, music, or another non-academic class. I choose art, since my kids aren't natural artists so wouldn't choose that on their own and since they regularly take guitar lessons anyway. I want them to experience something different, just like they would in school.

I can see that this last 50 minutes is quickly circling the drain, so I choose something active: gesture drawings. We look at Rembrandt's gesture drawings, watch a tutorial video, read a little on the basics, and then spend about 20 minutes actually drawing. They love that. They're moving, working, creating.

Meanwhile, G sneaks partway up the stairs and softly whines, "When's lunch? I'm so loooooonely!" (He did not want any part of Mock Day!)

Finally, lunch! I have them line up, walk silently down the stairs, stop to get their meal punch cards, and then walk with them into the kitchen for their leisurely 25-minute lunch. They're so hungry that they each eat 2 sandwiches! They're scarfing down the last one, with T jamming the last bite into his mouth in the last minute of lunch.

The half hour of recess (I remind S that she wouldn't get recess next year in middle school) is a godsend. We all need it. They go wild, chasing each other around the house and outside, laughing like banshees. I remind them that in lots of schools these days kids aren't allowed to run on the playground, since someone might get hurt. I hole up in the office, breathing a bit of non-kid air for my precious 30 minutes. I quickly see why the Teachers' Lounge is such a popular place in schools.

It's now 12:30 and up we go to Social Studies. One of the items on the curriculum list is Government, so we talk together about the Constitution, the Articles, and the 3 branches of government for an hour. During this time, I'm looking at the kids, asking questions and expecting answers. S is still chiming in, but my ADD-type kid is completely glazed at this point, with no glimmer of life left behind his eyes. He's completely checked out, his face like paste.

1:30 and time to move on to Science. This is T's favorite subject, so I'm sure he'll perk up. As I put away the Social Studies materials, I hear S say, "What?" to T. He replies a bit more loudly, "I give up." She says, "You can't give up. You're in school."

T shifts from his chair to the floor, plops down cross-legged, and says sternly, "I give up!"

I say, "You wanted to have a mock day. We need to finish the entire day so you can have a good idea of what school is like."

But he is done. I get him to agree to sit on the floor with me where we can all talk about what 3rd-graders are expected to accomplish in Science, instead of actually doing a lesson. That doesn't last long, however, and he's soon standing on his desk, jumping up and down, and chanting, "I GIVE UP! I GIVE UP!"

And gee, he didn't even raise his hand.

But I am determined to finish out the day, just so that he can have that experience. We spend the time after Science, called "Flex Time" (whatever that is), playing a dictionary game with G.  

At 2:45 school is dismissed, to the delight of all.

Before they scamper away, I remind them - being the helpful, nice teacher that I am - that, if this were a real school day, they would go home (possibly after ballet lesson, piano lesson, or Cub Scouts), have a half an hour or so to relax, then do their homework, which looked at that point like at least an hour of work, then have dinner, and last collapse into bed. And tomorrow start the whole process again. The blood drained from their faces in horror.

All in all, it was a successful day in many ways. The kids got what they wanted. I felt like I gave them as real an experience as possible without having the benefit of the school. I gained a much greater appreciation for teachers. I have always appreciated teachers, but this experience has taught me just how tiring the day is and how much work is involved. 

What's more, the kids seem to have gained a greater appreciation of their educational situation. They saw how confining desks, regimented schedules, and strict curriculum guidelines can be. They saw just how much freedom they have to learn what they want, when they want to, and to the depth they desire.

All in all, a good day.

Transitioning from Love of Learning to Academic Excellence

Imagine a person who marvels at the world, who oozes curiosity, who wakes each morning with a passion to learn what the world has to teach. She explores all that she touches and views the landscape with wide eyes. 

A child, obviously. That's certainly the first image that comes to thought. But what if that person is an adult?

Is that possible in today's world, with its standardized tests, its demand for a 4.0 GPA, its intolerance of independent thought in school, and its dogmatic assurance of what's necessary to succeed? 

Is there any way to maintain natural curiosity while still succeeding in today's world, and specifically in today's educational system?

One of the greatest gifts I can give my kids is the love of learning. I worry less about what they learn ... I want them to learn how to learn. If I can give them the ability to learn, they can learn anything.

So let's say that from early childhood I foster that love of learning (I'd call it "LOL" for short, but you might all end up laughing uncontrollably). They go through life merrily skipping along the lane, picking up bugs and turning over rocks, wading through ponds and finger painting (not at the same time), asking deep questions and being satisfied with open-ended answers, moving from experience to experience with wonderment, joy, and satisfaction. They grow, listening to the birds chirping (picture Snow White). They learn.

But I turn around one day and noticed that my kids are not only growing, they're growing fast. Suddenly, we seem to be running out of time. We look down at our watches, and three years have passed. G leaves for college in six years. How do we accomplish everything we need to in just six short years?

I panic and jump into "academic excellence" mode. Gone is the learning for learning's sake. Gone is the plan to learn how to learn and the focus is on what to learn. Gone is the leisurely time for walking and listening to the heartbeat of the trees. What's taken its place is the push to learn THIS, learn THAT. "You'll need this to learn that."

Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Back up. Is this what I want my kids to get out of their education? Decidedly not. So I take a breath and stop in my tracks. 

Let's look at this transition from love of learning to academic excellence. Do they need to be mutually exclusive? Do they need to be independent methods of education? Can you have academic excellence without a love of learning, and if you love to learn, is it possible not to develop at least some excellence in some academic field?

Clearly, we need to bow at the altar of the admissions gods if we want our kids to go to the colleges they choose. That means abiding by their demands for sacrifices and offering up the required bounty. But I maintain that we can honor their wishes without following the path of the traditional quest for academic excellence.

Our society is conditioned to believe that we must follow certain paths to reach specific destinations. If the destination is college, there's a typical well-traveled path that leads straight from high school to the doors of the university. We all know the road: standardized tests, AP classes, 4.0 GPA (anything less than an A is unworthy), extracurricular activities (which our kids happily fit in the wasted time between homework and waking), letters of recommendations from noteworthy professors (after all, your kid is interning in a genetics lab in his spare time, right?), volunteering (how would the sheets at the orphanage get washed without your kid's help?), and the bubbly, articulate, perfectly polished interview (Katie Couric, take notes).

In short, academic excellence. 

But that scenario--which is a pretty well-established, expected routine for college-bound students these days--is pretty unforgiving and often the antithesis of maintaining the love of learning.

My belief, which I've seen confirmed by more than a few real-life students' lives, is that the love of learning transitions beautifully to academic excellence, if given a chance. As children gain more and more knowledge about things that they're fascinated with, their curiosity naturally prompts them to widen their knowledge base, to seek out new information, to boldly go where no student has gone before. A kid who has been given free rein on learning what she wants to delve into can develop a vast mental network, with nodes connecting to all sorts of fields.

Take the elementary schooler who loves thunderstorms. Left to her own devices (and without having to bend will of the science teacher), that kid will quickly exhaust all the books written for children on the topic of thunderstorms. Naturally, she'll branch out, looking into other resources (videos, websites, etc.) for more information on thunderstorms, moving up to books for older readers, or researching related topics (tornados or hurricanes). The central node of her network has put out feelers and connected slightly different topics and somewhat more advanced discussions.

By the time that student gets to middle school, she may have developed a strong foundation for science, in addition to other tangential fields that related to her original interest. Perhaps her interest has morphed into other areas that were originally only marginally related to thunderstorms, say safety engineering, disaster relief, or civil engineering after reading about mass evacuations before hurricanes.

And by high school? She'll probably have a rock-solid science foundation, which will have to be supplemented only enough to fill the small holes. To round out her education, she may have to take some classes that wouldn't be her first choice, but if she's continued that love of learning throughout her life so far, she'll value the experience, even if she's not thrilled with the subject matter. And she'll recognize that those classes are necessary for her to reach her ultimate goal.

This is my perfect vision. We haven't gotten there yet, so we'll see how it plays out. I expect that my worries will get the best of me at some point and I'll cave in to the pressure of the "what you need to know" argument. I'll hold off as long as I can, and I hope my children's love of learning will prove that my worries were unfounded.