I’ve done this sort of thing before and am familiar with the place at which I’ve arrived; familiar with the sense of rebellion I feel and the edge that comes from repetition and rigor towards something usually given free rein.

With the best of intentions—explore, learn, grow!—I’ve crippled my creativity, shackling it to year-long itineraries, prescriptive rules, and scheduled accountability. Talk about a killjoy—and, in a year where I’m exploring the very concept of joy!

So how will I remedy this? By official and public proclamation:

I’m no longer working on any planned projects—photography or otherwise!

…and disclaimer:

However, I may change my mind
…and I might post about these projects I’m not doing
…and include photos
…and, let’s just leave it open and without rules, okay?

That should do it.

Isn’t the creative mind just a wee bit insane sometimes?

When he was younger, he enjoyed moving about little plastic dinosaurs. Now, his interest in the ancient beasts is mixed together with pretend trips taken in made-up time machines, portal devices that transport you to alternate realities, and hikes along treacherous volcanoes. The dinosaurs are a source of grand adventure! Now, the books he reads, the way he plays, and the items he invents—amazing, 3D objects made of paper, tape, and staples and his gear-driven Lego inventions—all point to a simple truth: He’s growing up.

At times, I’ll glimpse Duncan’s younger self because of some action or phrase. It’s as if through sudden flashback, I’m a time traveler myself. The reminiscence, though brief, is long enough to savor and compels a shift in perspective. However, it is at this point—the point of shift—that the current moment reasserts itself, forcefully flinging me back into reality. Then, my freshly altered perspective causes me to see just how much Duncan has changed.

Rather than pine away for the past, however, I’m grateful:

• For Duncan’s joy as he grows and changes.
• For time travel (at least, the kind borne on memory’s wings).
• For dinosaur birthdays and Duncan.

Happy ninth birthday Duncan!

Homework, Homework, Homework

Skipping ahead in our story, we find ourselves at our kitchen island, facing the monthly list of second grade homework objectives. It’s up to us parents to help our children navigate, complete, and document progress against these objectives on a weekly basis:

• Reading: Read four times a week, recording the amount of time of each session.
• Math Facts: Practice math facts four times a week.
• Enrichment Projects: Complete an enrichment project every week.
• Language Skills: First half of the year, practice high-frequency spelling words three times a week (specific words from the list provided every Monday). Second half of the year, complete four Daily Language worksheets per week.

While his teacher provides language skills homework, complying with the other objectives is left to our discretion. As a result, this is how we approach Duncan’s homework objectives:

Reading: I encourage Duncan to read whatever he wants, whenever he wants with a minimum of two hours a week spent reading. He often does more because the freedom within the approach fosters a love of reading in him. “I get to read whatever I want?” he asks in disbelief. “I want to read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory!”

However, while Duncan demonstrates fluency and enjoys what he reads (which implies comprehension), his teacher worries that he’ll fall behind in third grade because he isn’t testing well in comprehension. But, the data analysts/engineers in us wonder if Duncan’s scores are a reflection of his ability to comprehend or his ability to take tests. And frankly, we’re not willing to risk damaging his love of reading to find out. So, we change nothing in our approach to his reading homework.

Math: Since I don’t yet know about the Math Wars or reform mathematics, I provide Duncan with practice problems (old school), thinking that I’m augmenting his school studies. And, since Duncan’s learning style is so similar to mine, I begin teaching him in the way that I learned math from Mrs. Reid, my own second grade teacher. I teach him in a sequential manner.

I lead Duncan through addition and subtraction and introduce him to borrowing and carrying when he is ready. He does very well, for the first few months. Well into the school year however, his abilities suddenly and rapidly decline. He has more and more stomach aches, sore throats, and frustrating days. And there comes a point where he says, “My teacher was frustrated. She said, ‘Obviously, you’re not doing enough math at home.’ Because I didn’t finish the Mad Minute in time. I’m too slow. Plus, I’m mad. It’s not true. We do math at home…Mom, I’m sorry I’m so slow.”

Putting aside my immediate reaction and feelings, I dig in and investigate. Then, I realize how much emphasis the school (and educational industry, in general) devotes to the process of solution when it comes to math. That is, a lot of time is spent discussing various methods for solving problems. As a result, Duncan takes this emphasis to mean that correct answers take a back seat to the process of arriving at those answers. Consequently, a problem like 11 + 10 (which he could answer months before) stumps him. To solve it, he first runs through the list of strategies: Is it a plus-one problem, or a plus-10, or a plus-10-plus-one? Or, wait! Is it a double plus-one or minus-one? He’s so focused on arriving at the answer by way of the correct strategy that he loses site of the question altogether.

Right around this time, his teacher teases us for teaching Duncan to borrow and carry. “Shame on you.” she says, “We’re not ready for that yet.” I keep it to myself that he was solving these sorts of problems just fine a few months ago. “Besides,” she adds, “It’s now called regrouping.”

Hmm. Maybe curriculum vendors don’t know about “add with carry” and “subtract with borrow” in computer programming.

From this point on, we limp through to the end of the school year. Meanwhile, Duncan’s doubts about his abilities in math become entrenched. He solidly believes—at eight years old—that he will never be any good at math. Worse yet, his doubts are spreading into other areas of study. Then one day he asks, “Is doing your best really good enough?” He’s pretty certain it’s not.

Enrichment: Often, we turn the (nebulous) enrichment objective into fun a writing project because Duncan is beginning to hate writing for school. He’s often asking me, “Why can’t I write like I do during the summer? Why can’t I write for fun?” Through his homework, I encourage him to write the things he’d like to write: Short stories, instructions, letters, and slices of life.

This is enough to keep him interested in writing, though he begins to share his belief that he’s not a very good writer—or at least not as good as his teacher would like. “But that’s okay,” he says, “I like writing anyway…at least, that is, I like writing homework.”

Language: Personally, I find I am disappointed by the spelling approach. It is about memorizing a list of high-frequency words—which seems like a great idea on the surface of things. However, without learning how words are formed (including what happens with the addition of prefixes and suffixes) analytical brains can have trouble predicting how to spell words beyond the list. I know this, because that’s how my brain works.

Though I loved to write from the very beginning, my spelling was terrible—it least it was until I met my mother-in-law, a linguist. Between what I learned from her and my own studies in college linguistics, my spelling improved by leaps and bounds. Yet, I wish I had learned the fundamentals when I was younger.

Next, I find I’m surprised by the intuitive approach to grammar (e.g., the Daily Language worksheets). When Duncan asks, “What is a predicate?” I realized through the conversation that follows that he is missing fundamentals that would support the worksheets. There appear to be no tangible lessons in grammar. Yes, he knows what a noun is and he’s pretty sure he knows what a verb is, but this subject and predicate stuff, “What is that Mom?”

As I explore this more, I learn that Duncan doesn’t really understand much about pronouns, adjectives, adverbs, sentence types, and mechanics. Yet, the worksheets evaluate for proficiency in these areas. So, I enhance his lessons in these areas as much as I can without taking away more time from his day.

And Then, We Make Our Decision

So many factors lead to our decision to home school Duncan. First, Erik and I worry about what seems to be an obvious mismatch between school and Duncan’s learning style, self-confidence, and emotional health. Next, Duncan spends six hours a day in school and then his homework consumes another hour or more. He’s exhausted and we’re a bit concerned about his lack of time to just be a kid. (And, when did it come into Vogue to give second graders an hour-plus of homework a day, anyway?) Finally,—and ironically,—managing Duncan’s homework, convinces me that we can do this; I can teach Duncan and he enjoys it. Plus, he thrives when I do.

So, that’s it. We decide to home school in 2012-2013; his third grade year. And, as if by magic, the seeds of doubt about Duncan’s future seem to fly away, carried off by our convictions that this is the right thing to do. Enthusiasm replaces doubt and we roll up our sleeves ready to begin. Sure, there’s a lot of planning we do to get ready, but our hearts are light and our hopes are big. It’s such a great feeling!

And, as we’re sitting there in conference, I think to myself, he’s probably uncomfortable with the intensity of eye contact. Heck! I’m still uncomfortable with eye contact. Should I be looking her in the eye? I can’t stop looking at her eyes. Must. Not. Take. My. Eyes. Off. Her. What did she just say?

By now though, I already know she isn’t pleased with with my three-year old son. Over the past month, she’s caught me at pick-up several times to share how Duncan had a difficult day. Which means that she’s had a difficult day. She says, “He cries and gets mad at the other kids…He wants to do the more difficult work [code for activities], but hasn't done the easier work yet...He wants to talk...He continues to look away when I'm talking to him."

Meanwhile, I'm noticing that the spark in Duncan's eyes seems to be growing a little dim. Plus, he's suddenly become afraid of buttons and snaps and no longer wants to wear button-up jeans. Clearly, it's time for me to intercede. So I make arrangements during the conference to visit the class as an observer the following week.

For my visit, I bring a pen and notepad and tell Duncan he has to pretend I'm not there in the class with him. He's a little unsure of this, but manages to go about his work after a moment or two.

What I observe over the next 30 minutes surprises me. The teacher has clear favorites, you can tell by the names she calls them and the hugs she doles out. And, even though I'm in the room, she excludes Duncan from circle time, inviting all the children but him. Moments later, she excludes him again from introductions to the new student in class. This time, however, several children say, "What about Duncan?" And as I watch, I begin to see a trend of these amazing kids acting as a buffer between Duncan and his teachers.

I leave there thinking that maybe Montessori—or at least this Montessori—isn't for Duncan.

When I return at pick-up, his teacher catches me again. "It was great for a while after you left, then we had trouble again. He got mad at the kids again and pushed their blocks down." So, I ask her, "What triggered this response in him? Did something happen before he grew upset?" It turns out that the others wouldn't let him play and said some mean things to him. "I guess I should have told them to be nicer." She says, adding, "But, that wasn't all. He heard the noon bell and was pointing out the window, trying to get my attention and tell me about the bell. But, it wasn't time for sharing. It was time to return to our desks and get to work. He grew so upset that I wouldn't let him tell me about the bell. He began to shake and cry."

At this point, I decide we're done. We collect his things, say goodbye, and Duncan never returns to the school. But, the damage is done—seeds of doubt have been planted in Duncan. For the next several months, we work to rebuild Duncan's confidence in himself and get him ready for another try at a different preschool the next year.

Seeds of doubt were planted in me, as well—doubt about Duncan's future, the choices we made that put him in this teacher's path, my parenting ability, and the ways in which I might be contributing to the challenges he faced. Part of me is frozen, stuck there in that moment. The other part runs full steam into distraction; anything to keep me from the doubts within my heart. Rather than tend to them, I look away—afraid to consider the implications. And as though to punctuate this moment in our lives, all my memory keeping projects come to a halt. Sure, I generate a page here and there, but it is as if I can't tell the major stories any more; I can't tell our story any more. The seeds of doubt are taking root.

Other times, standing there like a boulder in the river brings comfort. I stand resolute, recording all of the changes experienced in the stream. I lose myself to something larger than myself.

Somehow, this abandon fosters clarity until I wake up, ready to bolt from the stream and share some realized truth. Yet, there’s no bolting under the weight of experience. It’s more of a lumbering effort— one that usually strips me of clarity, leaving a billion vague impressions instead.

Shadows of creativity: These. At least that’s the conviction of my wilder, emotional self. These moments are storms vexing the imagination. The analytical in me believes it’s simply a transition; a process of moving through the various creative stages of living, recording, and interpreting all that we sense and feel. Of course, my wilder self throws a tantrum about this and doesn’t really care what the cause. The feelings are upsetting.

And, that’s where I find myself this morning, at the intersection of transition.

New Photography Projects

• Capture self-portraits on a weekly basis.
• Launch into a new photography studies project with monthly themes.
• Capture specific moments of gratitude on a daily basis for 60 days and post to the: In this Moment Project.
• Create new family photo books in 2013, including a vintage photo book for the family.

My Intention

I’ve graduated from simplify (or, simplificate as Erik likes to say) and have moved on to joy. It’s a word that resonates for me and feels like a pretty theme for the new year!

“Oh! A Siamese!” he exclaims as one mutates before my eyes, “Now, if I could just make the other one notice me and transform. Then, we could get some kitties underway.”

I can’t help but giggle. He loves to play Minecraft (though, we limit his time) and one of his favorite activities is encouraging chickens, cats, villagers, and dogs to multiply. Perhaps, he’s a farmer at heart (or a city planner)? Whatever the motivation, I find it delightful!

Truth be told, I really dig how he views the world and himself in it. Sometimes, I wonder if he’ll be a philosopher. He can be so self-aware at times; a trait I’ve had to explain to a few teachers who seemed a bit alarmed by the quality in a youngster.

I think it was a little disconcerting that a then seven-year old might think in the way he thought/thinks. He ponders multiverses, time, his own existence, how DNA is like a computer program, how his own brain works—and that he believes it to work differently than other children’s. Still, he’s a kid with (now eight-year old) kid inclinations. He’d just as soon read about Captain Underpants as his college anatomy or geology books. And, I can’t tell you how often I must remind the rest of the boyish household that a girl lives here, too, and can we please—PLEASE—stop with the restroom talk already!

And, while I stand there lost in a moment of mommy affection, he asks (without looking away from the monitor), “Oh, and did you know, silverfish can escape? They eat through rock. Thank goodness they don’t do that in real life!”

Thank goodness, indeed!