I am sitting on a beat-up yellow vintage couch surrounded by toys. There’s a small mouse finger puppet, a mouse beanie baby, an owl finger puppet, a dalmatian puppet, and a small plastic sheep that came in a farm set years ago. We are beginning a new book about Nicholas, a mouse who is taking a journey from the Berkshire Mountains in Western Massachusetts all the way to Cape Cod; and we are going to travel along beside him.
I have big plans to create a beautiful curriculum to go along with the book. I want to visit the places Nicholas visits. I want to learn the things Nicholas learns. Explore the animals Nicholas meets. I want to create memories with my children of taking the same journey Nicholas takes.
As I read, I use the toys to act out the story. Pausing every few paragraphs, I ask them to narrate it back to me, offering the toys as props. I make mental notes about activities that might connect with the chapters we read, and for the first few weeks, I think I might actually write this curriculum as I had planned.
But weeks go by and I drop the ball. We no longer use toys as prompts. I no longer take notes about field trips or nature study topics that connect to what we read. We occasionally look at our state map when Nicholas finds himself in a new place, but my desire to be intentional about incorporating activities with our weekly reading has fallen to the wayside.
Instead, we read in small increments of 15 minutes three days a week. My children narrate the story back to me as we go. Along the way, we discover that Nicholas has become a friend. His journey an adventure we are on too—not because of the activities we do—but simply because of the words we read.
*****
A few months after we’ve finished reading Nicholas, we are sitting in a restaurant in Provincetown waiting on our lunch to arrive. We are on our annual camping trip in Cape Cod and this year we took a day trip to the very tip. When my oldest asks if they are going to re-use the placemats we were given when we sat down at the table, I immediately know where her mind is. “I don’t think so,” I tell her; “Why? Would you like to bring it home?” “Yes,” she replies, “I’d like to hang it on my wall. It’s a really cool map.”
Knowing the placemat will likely be ruined by the condensation on her glass or the ketchup she will drop, I ask our server if we can have a few extras. “They’d like to bring one home,” I say. A few moments later, he walks over with 4 new placemats, rolled like a scroll and securely fastened with a paper wrapper. “I brought you a few extra,” he says, smiling at these two darling girls who are intrigued by the maps in front of them.
I carefully put the scroll in my bag, promising they can take a look at them when we get back to the car. We look at the maps in front of us, pointing out the places we had been to earlier that week, and the places we still want to see.
After lunch, when they are safely buckled in their car seat boosters, they ask if they can see the placemats. Taking them from my bag, I pass them to the backseat. Eager to get another look, my oldest carefully removes the paper holding the placemats in their rolled-up form. She passes one to her sister and stares at the map in her own hands for the rest of the 30-minute ride back to our campground. I had no idea a simple placemat could bring a child so much entertainment and joy.
*****
“Mommy, look at my map of Cape Cod!”
I feel tiny grains of sand on the bottom of my bare feet as I walk over to the corner of the living room. The girls are playing with Kinetic sand and glass aquarium beads. The oldest has created a landmass of sand, surrounded it with glass beads and carefully placed jacks for the lighthouses we saw in Woods Hole and Orleans. As I stand over it to get a better look, she says, “Wait, I need to add something else.” She runs into the other room to grab a toy candy stick, returning to strategically place it at the top right edge of the sand.
We have just come home from a week’s vacation in Cape Cod and she is excited to show me the 3-D map she has created with her hands. “This is the Pilgrim Monument,” she tells me, pointing to the candy stick. “It was here, right?” I nod my head.
“This is incredible,” I say. “Did you copy that from the map we brought home?”
“No,” she replies, “I had the map in my head, so I did it from memory.”
I am amazed at her ability to re-create this map. For as long as we’ve been homeschooling, I’ve been wondering if I was doing enough when it came to Geography. Looking at state standards for what they should know, I feel uncertainty over my ability to teach the things they would learn if they were in school. All we do is read books. Occasionally, we look at maps. And yet here she is, in her free time, creating a map of our most recent vacation out of kinetic sand and glass beads.
*****
“Trust the process,” a homeschooling friend told me years ago. I had just begun homeschooling and recently discovered the writings of Charlotte Mason. I loved what I read—start small, short lessons, varied throughout the week. I wanted our homeschool life to happen organically, but I knew it needed a backbone of sorts, or I would feel like a complete failure.
“Just let them play until they turn 6,” I read, over and over again; but the pictures of friends sending their kids off to school made me feel like “just letting them play” would mean putting them behind. Charlotte Mason became a gift. A compromise of sorts. I could read stories to them, have them tell me what they heard, and be done with school in an hour a day. Or less! My oldest was 5 at the time. It was her Kindergarten year, so we took it slow. We read Beatrix Potter. Madeline. Night of the Moonjellies. We drew pictures together. Went on field trips. I let them play. A lot.
Each year since, I’ve added a few more books. We spend a little longer each day reading books and doing narrations. We spend time learning phonics, grammar, writing, and math. But still, no lesson last longer than 15-20 minutes. And most days, we are done with our lessons before lunch.
I have learned to trust the process. And I’ve fallen in love with the process. We may only spend just a couple of hours each day doing lessons, but they bring those lessons into their free play. And when they invite me in to see what they’ve done, I see just how much they learn through small increments several times a week.
Sometimes the days feel monotonous and it's hard to believe that tiny moments make a big impact. It’s so easy to get caught up in planning great experiences that I often forget the little things add up. In focusing on all the things I want to do—or all the things I’ve failed to do—I neglect to see the things we are doing.
And then, all of a sudden, when I least expect it, they pull toys out of the closet and create a project that I couldn’t have planned better myself.
This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in this series "Minutiae".
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