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This post is difficult to write.  The negatives of homeschooling are rarely discussed among homeschoolers.  There are so many attacks from so many angles without homeschool moms giving opponents fodder.  Those of you who would crow triumphantly “See!  I told you!”, this post is not for you.  Homeschool mamas wondering why your school day isn’t as peaceful, organized, or wonderful as other blogging moms, this post is for you.

Two weeks ago I expelled my oldest from school.

Oh, it had been a long time coming.  Attitude problems.  Refusing to do his work.  Taking hours and hours for a single assignment.  Just after Christmas he informed archly that “he doesn’t read”, such a plebian pastime being beneath him.  After that, silent reading became a battle, too.

Mr R began requiring more supervision.  Eventually other subjects were crowded out.  No time for art this week – I had to browbeat Mr R into writing his spelling words.  No time for art when the math hasn’t been done.  Prima Latina sat unopened on my desk.  We just couldn’t get to it.

Most of February was spent with everyone just doing the very basics.

His attitude was contagious.  Mr P began procrastinating even starting his work until after lunch, and I was too busy trying to keep Mr R focused and working to demand that he follow a better schedule.  Mr P still finished his homework before the neighborhood kids came over to play, since all of our extras were being pushed aside.  Mr S, the second grader, decided that he didn’t need to practice reading either.  More and more of my day was spent disciplining or dealing with consequences.

Mr R wasn’t content with just putting off his schoolwork.  While Mama was busy teaching borrowing to the second grader, Mr R would be gobbling chocolate chips in the kitchen or annoying his little sisters or fighting with the third grader.  His relationship with his sister, Miss E, has never been ideal and it simply got worse.  Our school got loud, then got louder.

We spent days on end fighting.  I was always mad, even if I didn’t show it.  Why couldn’t he just get his math book, without all the drama?  I could never enjoy the creative stories he tried to tell me because I kept interrupting him to insist that he write his spelling words.  I was constantly annoyed with him because I knew his grammar lesson lurked, blank and unfinished, on the shelf.

He wanted to help me with dinner, but how could I let him when he hadn’t done his basics and when I suspected he was using it as a ploy to get out of schoolwork?  He wanted to wander the creek looking for snakes, but I couldn’t let him out of the yard because he’d only done two math problems.

There were tears.  Books were thrown.  Privileges revoked.  He didn’t get to play with friends for weeks on end.  Soon, every interaction we had was negative.  Our whole lives were consumed with threatening punishment or doling them out, trying to be consistent.  Nothing was working.

Mr R, if you remember, is my unique little boy with mood stability problems, bipolar disorder, and learning disabilities.   He does not react the same way most children do.  Things most children shrug off can be a major crisis; drastic punishments can just roll off his back.

Last year was a wonderful year in our school, and he advanced two grade levels in math.  This year, he barely progressed at all.  He declared that he was unable to do minuses – even though he’s been subtracting for two years, and this declaration held the force of law for him.  He would get upset if such a problem dared to surface on his drill sheets or math lesson.  (And by “upset”, I mean a total meltdown lasting half an hour or more.)

This is not what I wanted.  Mr R has struggled often.  I spent a year begging God to give me a heart for him, and to know how to help him.  I want his mind to soar.  I want him to thrive.  I want him to multiply fractions and not cry.

Husband dear would take the boys to aikido twice a week, and on other nights I would take off to do errands as soon as dinner was served.  I needed a break after hours and hours of conflict.  The grocery shopping had to be done, after all, and I relished the extra few minutes browsing the aisles in relative peace. Sometimes the grocery shopping just had to be done twice a week.

My plan was to give him a solid foundation on which to build his dreams of being an inventor and naturalist.  The reality was that even his natural bent towards nature and creating contraptions was being squashed in an effort to just get the gall-darn basics done, and at the same time my relationship with him was faltering.

Inevitably, things came to a head.  I expelled him.  He could no longer participate in our school.

He smirked.  He didn’t care.

Until the consequences of being expelled were explained.  He started aikido lessons in February, and he promised to stick with it for two months if we bought him a gi.  Since aikido was part of his curriculum, his PE class, I told him he would no longer be allowed to attend.  And since he quit his class before his two month commitment, the cost of the gi would have to come out of his allowance.

Since he was no longer a student at St. Joseph Academy for Wayward children, he was no longer allowed to fraternize with the students during school hours (his siblings).  He would have to spend school time in his room, alone, playing until I was able to enroll him in a different school.  I promised to call him down at lunch time.  He could not go outside, because he was not enrolled in any school and what would he tell the truancy officer if he happened to drive by?

And since he wasn’t a student, he couldn’t participate in Fun Fridays, where we watch National Geographic DVDs or create architecture with popsicle sticks.  The garden outside was tended as part of our science curriculum.  He was stuck.

After a day of this, and an emotional meeting between us, with his father mediating, promises were made (as they always are.)  I allowed him back into the school, on the condition that he complete his work quickly and promptly, without argument.

And on the following Monday, he arrived at our school a changed man.

~ to be continued ~