"He is so completely dependent upon me," marvels the beautiful young woman standing in front of me. She looks happy, perhaps a bit tired, and sweetly amazed and overwhelmed by the sense of responsibility she clearly feels for the newborn baby swaddled snugly against her chest. Her infant son fidgets slightly and attempts to suckle on the fabric near his tiny mouth, and I am flooded with memories.
I remember well how it felt to be a new mother—that paradoxical mixture of infatuation and terror. I empathize with what she must be going through and wish I could express all the sympathy, excitement, and compassion I feel for her and her husband in that moment. But suddenly my throat tightens and I'm unable to speak, so I simply smile back at her instead. My husband, standing next to me, is equally quiet, and I suspect he is as moved as I am by the unexpected sight of this baby.
It would be impossible for us not to think of our own son, who happens to be away this week and will soon be leaving home to attend a residential college out of state. I think to myself, "He is so completely
not dependent upon me (anymore)." I have to breathe carefully to avoid bursting into tears.
My "baby" boy's years of physical dependency are in the distant past; these days, when I try to do something for him, he is as likely as not to reject my attempts at mothering. Most of the time, I admire his independence, and rationally I understand that this is all good; it is how things are supposed to be. My job from the beginning has been to help him grow progressively less dependent upon me and more confident in himself, and now I know I have been successful because he has grown into a capable and conscientious young man, ready to go out into the world and seek his fortune.
My son follows in the footsteps of his two older sisters, who have likewise asserted their independence, gone off to college, and settled in places of their own. I am proud, happy and excited to see them as young adults. I enjoy spending time with my children as much now as I always have.
But, in spite of my understanding, I can't help mourning the loss of that intense closeness we once shared. The everyday routine of living, learning and questioning that is normal for a homeschooling family was what made my life wonder–full. I can't believe it's ending! My heart aches—not metaphorically but in a very real and physical way—when I think of my youngest child leaving for college this fall. I am going to miss him as immensely as I already miss his sisters. More than that, I am going to miss being a home educator and spending my days with the homeschooling friends I have made over the years.
And yet, how many people can say they have no regrets? What an extraordinary adventure the past 17 years have been! I have seen, done, and learned so much as a home educator. As a mother, coach and mentor, I feel as though I have gone through all the grades several times over, learning and relearning every subject along with my kids. (That's more interesting than it sounds: I have studied some topics as if for the first time—prompting me to wonder: did I ever
really learn about European history back when I was in school?—and I have rediscovered other subjects from a newer, fresher perspective.)
With each question or problem that arose, I moved deeper into various areas of expertise as I explored what worked, what didn't, and why. Fascinated by the subjects I was teaching and the pedagogies I embraced, I continued to be enriched by the ongoing process of mutual education. Many times over, I enjoyed the thrill of the "Aha!' moment, when everything at last became clear.
Could anything ever be as satisfying to me as homeschooling has been? I have trouble imagining it, but then I never imagined myself as someone who would spend nearly two decades as a home educator. Life can be surprising, so I'm keeping an open mind as I look for work and consider how the skills I've developed as an educator might be useful in a different context.
