Supervising Adult

When I was in high school, I competed in speech and debate. So, when the chance came up to coach high school speech and debate for the homeschool team, I was all over it.

The first year we went to the state competition, I had one competitor, and the tournament was held locally. The next year, it was in Las Vegas; the state competition alternates years - Reno, Vegas, Reno, Vegas - so that everybody has to do the same amount of travel, and the burden of hosting and finding judges, lodging discounts, etc. isn't always on the same teams.

When you grow up in Nevada, going to Las Vegas isn't as exotic and exciting sounding as it is if you grow up elsewhere. Plus, I don't drink, or gamble, or go to strip clubs, so a lot of the "traditional" Vegas stuff isn't even on my radar. It's not like I had to make an effort to be on my best behavior, or to shield the kids, by avoiding that stuff - avoiding it is my normal behavior.

Which, in hindsight, meant that I might not have been as vigilant as I might have been.

I coached with a close friend, one I've known since we were both teens. Later, we brought in a university student to help coach. Homeschool classes - we taught speech and theater at a co-op - and clubs can be more casual than they are in public or private schools. The students on our debate team called us by our first names. One of our students chose the "call to order" term we used (which was the word "potato"). We didn't make them approve their performance scripts or speeches with us before competition. We didn't give grades, just kept track of the points they earned with the national organization.

During that second state tournament, all of our kids were eliminated from competition by Saturday evening. We gave them a choice - stay and watch the rest of the competition, go back to the hotel and hang out at the pool, or go do something Vegas-y. The majority of the kids chose a trip to the Las Vegas Strip. The rest voted for the hotel pool. My co-coach LaRena would stay at the hotel. The 20 year old coach, Rachel, and I would take the other kids to the Strip.

It didn't seem like an inappropriate or risky choice. To me, the Strip is the Bellagio fountains, the M&M store, the habitat for Sigfried and Roy's tigers, the roller coaster at New York, New York. All of the things that we usually do are totally kid appropriate. I tend to forget how much there is that's not "family friendly." That was my first mistake. My second was in not thinking about how different a Saturday night might be, as opposed to, say, a Tuesday afternoon.

My third was in not taking the date into consideration. It was St. Patrick's Day. I have sincerely never equated St. Patrick's Day with alcohol. I don't drink, remember? At all. We spend our St. Patrick's Day eating corned beef and watching "Darby O'Gill and the Little People."

So, off I went, on a Saturday night, with my minivan full of kids, to the Las Vegas Strip, on St.Patrick's Day.

Yes, I am that naive.

We drove through town; I don't see well enough in the dark to drive on the freeway after dark. I put my Veggie Tales "Veggies Sing the 80s" CD on; Rachel still hasn't forgiven me. The plan was to park at the Miracle Mile shopping center, then head to the fountains and the M&M store. We were just hitting Las Vegas Boulevard when an outraged voice from the back seat said, "Is that someone's butt on that billboard?" The girl speaking is an only child, homeschooled all her life, from a very conservative, Evangelical Christian family - in short, a very sheltered girl.

I looked out the window. Yes, indeed, 40 feet tall or more, there was a close up of a woman's butt, wearing a thong that provided zero coverage. "Yes, that's someone's butt. It's probably best to avoid looking at the billboards." Oh, dear, I thought, I've forgotten to factor in billboards. That includes the rolling billboards advertising brothels that cruise up and down the Strip. (For businesses that are an hour or more outside of town, they advertise rather aggressively.) I tried to remember if the clear plexiglass trailers with strippers in them were still allowed to cruise the Strip. Those were banned as being traffic hazards, weren't they?

Oh, dear. But we can avoid billboards, right?

I couldn't quite figure out why it was so crowded. It was March! Who travels in March? We finally made it to the parking garage, and I started to get a real sense of how very crowded it was. There were almost as many people milling about as there were cars. They all seemed to be intoxicated, despite it being only about 7:00 PM. So many of them were carrying plastic cups that were two or three feet tall. And the hats and the feather boas - "Is it a bachelor or bachelorette party?" I wondered out loud.

"It's St. Patrick's Day. Didn't you notice that everything's green?" Oh; no. I hadn't. But it'll be fine, right?  I mean, we just ignore the drunks.

And the street performers; oh, my. There are always people in costume posing for photos for tip money. There might be superheroes, Disney characters, or "showgirls" - not the actual showgirls from splashy casino shows, but people in spangled bikinis and tall, feathered hats. That night, it seemed to be mostly showgirls in thongs. Great; now we had to avoid actual butts, not just butts on billboards. Which shouldn't be too hard, normally, but there were so many people. We were jostling, constantly bumping into someone.

As we made our way through the crowd, one of my students, Kyle, said, "Sharon, I'm sorry. I just littered."

"Littered?"

"Yeah. This guy handed me a card, and said, 'You want a coupon?', so I just took it. But I looked at it and went like this." Kyle mimed bringing the card up in front of his face, his eyes widening, then tossing the card aggressively to the ground. Now, I feel sincere ire for litterers. They're inconsiderate and impatient and I have no patience for them. But I knew exactly the cards he was talking about. If you've been to Vegas, you probably do, too. They're soft - or even hard - porn, advertising strip clubs or sex shops. They're only supposed to hand them to those 21 and older, but Kyle's tall - or, they didn't care. Many people do exactly what Kyle did, so the sidewalks on the Strip are papered in them. During daylight, it's less aggressive, but after dark, someone might shove one of them at you two or three times on a block. I was totally OK with Kyle littering.

"Yeah, lots of people will try to hand you things. Don't take anything from anybody."

My husband and LaRena's husband started walking one in the front of our group, and one in the back, to fend off anyone aggressive. Mark's a cop, and Dan's big, so they tried to look appropriately threatening. Still, I was the coach, the one responsible for the kids - I experienced stress.

At this point, I started repeating over and over, both out loud and in my head, "Just get to the fountains. We just need to get to the fountains." Then, I was sure, we could spend half an hour watching the free fountain show, unmolested.

Of course, I was wrong. As we hit the sidewalk in front of the fountains, a limousine pulled up, actually onto the sidewalk, so close to my kids that they could touch it. Just as I was feeling outraged because whoever it was might have hit my kids, who drives on the sidewalk, who lets them park there, the driver got out and started shouting through a megaphone. Directly into the faces of my teenage students, he yelled, "Free rides to the Hustler Club! Best show in town!"

No one, I thought, is ever going to let me supervise their kids again. They'll tell their parents, and I probably won't be allowed to teach at co-op. Most of my kids came from religious families, families who really live their religion, families who opted out of public education because they wanted to protect their kids. And what did I do? Bring them to the Las Vegas Strip, where they got an education in intoxication and strip clubs.

After the fountains, I abandoned plans for the M&M store. We went to McDonald's, where I bought everyone a soda or an ice cream. Then I hustled everyone back to the car, like a mother hen with her chicks. I could feel my blood pressure go down as we headed back across the valley.

I coached for four more years, so I guess that nobody complained.

Look at those kids. They're pretty great. They don't look scarred, do they?

Except for the Veggie Tales thing. I don't think Rachel will ever forgive me for that.

Majority Rules

I posted this on my Facebook page about a year ago. I was annoyed, and I not only quite often communicate better in writing, I can't stand having the same conversations over and over. "Maybe," I think, "if I say this in a public forum, I won't have to engage in repetitious conversations." Yeah, it's never worked that way, but I feel better after I write something. It's like thoughts just need me to give birth to them and set them free.

And some things shouldn't surprise me, but they do - I'm surprised every time someone says, "You know that most people disagree with you, right?" Sometimes they're very gentle and concerned, patting my hand. Sometimes, they're angry, and insisting that I have no right to speak an unpopular opinion aloud.

Here's why the query surprises me - I'm a Mormon. I homeschool my kids. I classify myself as a housewife. I mean, what about my life says, "popular choices"? How does anyone suppose that it's escaped my attention that I'm a minority, in multiple, fundamental ways? I cannot imagine how deluded someone would have to be to, say, belong to an unpopular religion, but still think that most people think and act like they do.

So, I find myself making pronouncements on social media.

Consider with me, People of Facebook -

Photos like the one of the man standing in the middle of a crowd in Nazi Germany, folding his arms while everyone else gives the Nazi salute, go viral. We share them all over our social media, saying, "Be this guy!" We like to pride ourselves on being individualists, on standing out; especially Americans, who coin terms like "sheeple" to deride those who conform. We like to think that we're all about being our own person.

Yet, one of the first things that anybody says when they're trying to sway my opinion, or to explain their own, is how many people agree with them. If I had even a penny for every time I heard the phrase "most people," I'd be wealthy.

The truth is, that guy with folded arms probably faced outrage and indignation from his loved ones. "What are you thinking? How could you be so disrespectful? The man is the leader of our nation! The Fuhrer lifted us out of poverty and chaos and restored us to our rightful place as a great nation! How is it that you can't even lift your arm to show your respect?" Even if they disliked Hitler and his policies, the guy would catch flak. "You're drawing attention to yourself! How can you put yourself in danger like that? What you say or do in the privacy of your own home is one thing, but you're drawing targets on all of us, on everyone you know, on your family, everyone you work with! Think of us! Think of (list of his loved ones and co-workers)."

And that's the people who LIKE him; what about the general public? The truth is, that guy may not have lived to the end of that day. Any number of people would have been happy to point him out to the authorities, in order to curry favor for themselves, because they thought he was dangerous, or both.

It's not just the big stuff, either, but all the small stuff. We're critical of the way people dress, the way they wear their hair, the cars they drive, the entertainment they watch. We decide what restaurants to eat at by checking Yelp reviews. We decide what movies to see by checking Rotten Tomatoes. I cannot tell you how many times I've bought a book or a movie ticket and had people say, "Why would you do that? It had terrible reviews." The idea that I want to decide for myself is often roundly criticized. I've actually been asked, "What makes you think that you know better than everyone else?" That's the wrong question. The more relevant one is, what makes everyone else think that they can, or should, override my own decision making process for my own life? I don't make choices for you; you don't get to make mine for me. Things become both absurd and dangerous if we all decide that we agree with the majority just because they are a majority, or that we need to let others decide for us because they are more qualified than we are.

Being contrary just because we think that it makes us superior or more intelligent is just as ludicrous and dangerous. It should not matter what others think, or whether it's a majority opinion or a minority one, when we're forming opinions. We should take in information and decide on our own, regardless.

Please know that if you say to me, "But most people think/do this," all I hear is a statement like, "This shirt is blue." It may be true, but I can't imagine why it would be relevant.

We pay a great deal of lip service to admiring people who stand alone, but in practice, we think they're odd, and view them with suspicion or discomfort.

So, People of Facebook, cut the oddballs some slack. They may be onto something. And even if they're not, at least they're thinking independently.

And people still say weird stuff to me.

Two of my (four) children have left the religion in which we raised them. We treat them exactly the same way we always have, but I was informed that, "Your child will never be able to be happy if you think that they're doing things wrong." What? What parent thinks that their child has never, ever done, said, or thought anything wrong? That's just silly. I was thus informed that if I think my kid (or, presumably, anyone else) is doing or thinking anything wrong, that I don't "truly accept them for who they are."

I'm sorry, but that's just poppycock.

Still, I'm willing to accede to that world view and say, those people are 100% right. My poor children - they will never be happy, and I don't truly accept them. BUT HERE'S THE THING: If that is true, it means that I can never be happy, because my children think that I am wrong. And those children do not truly accept me for who I am. I mean, after all, if it applies one way, it applies the other.

Plus, my religion is not something like my nationality or hair color, something I was born with, or had handed down to me by my parents - I chose it, on my own. In fact, that's one of the reasons I find this thinking to be so ridiculous; I joined my church, alone, when I was 12. My parents were never members. Yet I did not feel unloved, and they were not unhappy because of me.

Sometimes, too, people will feel judged by the simple fact that I homeschool. We'll be having an ordinary conversation, and then they'll find out, or be reminded, that my kids do not attend school. Suddenly, someone will get defensive, insist that I think they're a bad, unloving, selfish parent who's ruining their child's life by sending them to public school. No, I will say, I think no such thing. I'm in favor of many choices, and I made the choice that works best for my family. And often, I will still be treated to an extensive recital of why they chose public school, as if they need to convince me, or need my approval.

Or, they'll tell me why they don't agree with homeschooling, but will qualify it with, "I'm not talking about you and your family," as though I am somehow an exception to every rule.

And just when I've pretty much forgotten that Mommy Wars exist, someone will tell me that my choice to be home full time has ruined my children's lives, and mine as well. Or, they'll be sure that I'm condemning them for wanting and enjoying a career.

Folks, I am NOT judging you and thinking that you're a bad person if you do things I do not do. I have no illusions that people always will, or should, agree. Sometimes we will be wrong, but that does not nullify our right to occupy space on the planet, our right to live as we choose, our right to express ourselves, or our right to be treated with civility. It does not mean that we do not love others who are different. And if you keep insisting that the simple fact that I do things differently than you do, or think that you're wrong in any way, means that I'm judging you, disliking or distrusting you, or thinking you are a lesser person than I am, I will be forced to conclude that YOU feel this way about ME. Because, I GUARANTEE, even if you're a member of my family, a member of my church, a member of my political party, occupation, or any other classification, there is something I do that you think is WRONG.

You're, of course, free to think that I'm six kinds of dreadful, but realize that fact alone doesn't mean that I think that about you.

Yes, I am thinking of all the election year rhetoric. You are not a terrible person if you vote for a candidate that I can't stand. I am not a bad person if I vote a way that you find to be wrong.

Off to School We Go

My third child is about to leave home to attend a university several hundred miles away. Naturally, we're simultaneously thrilled and anticipating missing him.

We've done this twice before, as his sisters went away to school, so we know the drill. It's not new. Still, there are differences.

The biggest difference is that he's been homeschooled since the sixth grade. "Are you more excited about Alex than you were with Lana and me?" my middle daughter asked. No, not more excited; I do feel a bit more proud of myself, though, because his education has more to do with me. All I provided for his sisters was their genes.

OK, that's not true; I'm exaggerating. We provided good genes, a home filled with books, educational trips, parents who loved learning, a place and time for homework, perspective, incentive ("If your grades slip, you'll have to quit your job. School comes first."), and an environment that helped them succeed. Still, most of the responsibility rested on them, then on the school. We could help, but you know those studies that say that kids spend an average of ten minutes a day with their families? We had those days.

When they were young, they had dance classes, gymnastics classes, drawing classes, Scouts and church activities on various week nights. Thank goodness, they were not in all those activities at once, but it still meant 2 or 3 weeknights, on average, spent somewhere besides home. When they were in high school, especially their last two years, their schedules looked like this: 6:45 a.m. - early morning religion classes; 8 a.m. to 2 p.m. - school; 2:30 - 5:00 p.m. - band practice; 6 to 10 p.m. - job; 10:30 p.m. - bedtime. Add to that band performances at games and competitions, other extracurricular activities, time spent with friends and church youth group, and on many, many days, we'd see them just long enough to say, "Get up," and, "Go to bed." If there were large educational deficiencies, we could do little to remedy them except cut back on their work hours or extracurricular activities - and everyone knows that the standard advice on getting into the college of your choice strongly advises extracurricular activities, so cutting those too drastically would make for both unhappy teens and diminished educational opportunities. (Ironic, isn't it? You can't cut back in order to focus on education, because your educational opportunities will suffer.)

(Both, by the way, were honor students, both took AP courses. Both got into their first choice college.)

We've gotten used to having my son, and our youngest daughter, with us all the time. They, too, have had classes (fencing, dance, karate), Scouts, church activities and more. We've spent an average of one day a week, and sometimes two, at homeschool co-ops, where they're in classes taught by someone besides us for up to three hours. Even with all of that, we still see them for hours every day. This last year has been a big adjustment, since my son's been working an average of 30 hours a week.

And, of course, we're legally (and otherwise) responsible for making sure he has a chance to learn everything he needs to know. I don't have to teach it to him personally, but I have to make sure that he has a chance to learn it. That's a change from when my older kids just signed up for whatever their school offered.

I never worried too much about whether he'd be able to go to college after being homeschooled. (My husband worried a bit, but that's because it's what he does. I Worry, Therefore I Am.) There are so many avenues available. Many schools accept a homeschool diploma the same way they do a public or private school diploma. Dual enrollment, or enrolling at the community college during high school (ours accepts students 16 and older), the GED, placement exams, Credit By Exam/Advanced Placement exams and more are available for schools that don't accept a homeschool diploma.

There are so many schools, and so many ways to go to school; there are few wrong ways to become educated. One of the very few ways that I consider wrong is the need to go into massive amounts of debt so that you'll have a particular school name on your diploma. Sometimes debt is unavoidable - my second daughter needed student loans - but I think it's a bad idea in general to take on loans while in your teens or 20s that you won't have paid off until your 50s.

I loved recently reading a piece of common sense advice from a father to his daughter. She was a sweet, earnest girl wanting very much to do the right thing, and she asked her father how she'd know which college God wanted her to attend. His down to Earth response? "God doesn't want you to be an idiot, so go somewhere you'll learn." Bingo. That nails it.

Plus, my son had an A list (only two schools, but I browbeat him into adding a third), a B list and a C list of schools to apply to. His fallback, "if all else fails" plan was to stay home and go to the local community college and then transfer to the local university; that's the A list plan for many kids. It's a good one. Still, I wanted my son to have the experience he wanted. He wanted to go away to school. Plus, both of his sisters went to their A list schools.

Other people, it seemed, worried about my son's choices, and chances, a lot. Many of them would express general worries about homeschooling, then temper their expressed worries by saying something like, "Oh, I'm not worried about YOU and YOUR kid, just OTHER homeschooled kids," as if that wasn't irritating. (Obviously) I'm only responsible for my kid. The world in general doesn't answer to me.

Even my son, who asked us to do this for four years before everything aligned and it worked for our family, occasionally argued with my choices.

In his 5th grade public school classes, they'd had the kids in the advanced group doing "beginning algebra." When we started sixth grade, he naturally wanted to skip any review and go full steam ahead. I think that a lot of current assembly line, run-it-past-the-kids-pass-an-exam-on-it-and-move-on instruction doesn't let the instruction sink into their long term memory. Sometimes I'll use a common term like "adverb" around kids in honors classes (or adults who passed them), and they'll be baffled and unsure of what it means. I've watched too many teens in honors programs - mine included - insist that they can't calculate how much, say, a 20% discount is on an item. My 16 year old daughter, who was in honors trigonometry at the time, insisted through tears that she couldn't do simple multiplication without a calculator. I was not going to teach with those methods.

When he couldn't tell me what simple terms like numerator, denominator or divisor meant, I told my son that we were going back to the basics until they were rock solid. He was furious, and sure that he'd be tragically behind other kids his age. (This was also his dad's biggest worry. Math is not my strong suit, and I'm upfront about this. He occasionally worried that I was not up to teaching it.) I did not want to hear about what tests he'd passed; I wanted to know what he could do. An education only works if it's functional, accessible knowledge. Plus, terms like "beginning algebra" are fairly meaningless. The first time a small child is presented with, "2 + _ = 4," that's algebra. It's solving for the unknown using a given formula.

One of the reasons we chose homeschooling was the ability to tailor it to our kids as individuals. The more "standardized" instruction becomes, the less effective it is, in my opinion.

I have four children. Two of them are relentless perfectionists, much harder on themselves than necessary (or than anyone else will ever be). Two will always take the path of least resistance, and have to be kept strictly accountable for making any progress at all. Naturally, I have to handle these kids differently.

In general, I'm pretty laid back as an instructor. When I used to teach theater classes, we'd play some sort of game, or do something that the kids loved but that they assumed was just goofing off, and then I'd tell them the skill they'd just mastered. My youngest child is all about fun, and my son's way too hard on himself, so I deliberately kept things casual.

Sometimes, my son would accuse me of being too casual. I usually just "grade" their stuff as, "OK," or, "Do it over," so there's not a lot of letter grades. For his official transcript, the one that I anticipated every college needing, I had to do letter grades (and justify them). I coach the local homeschool speech and debate team; we compete against teams from public and private schools. He happened to look over my shoulder during his junior year when I entered an A for speech and debate. He was aghast. "I didn't trophy once! I don't deserve an A!" Competitions are on average every month during the school year, and although he made finals all but twice, and came in 4th several times, he had not trophied (3rd place and up). He would have grudgingly given himself a C, "or maybe a B-."

I dragged out my official coaching manual, given to me by the national organization. It gives a grading scale based on the points kids earn at competition. He was far, far above the amount of points required for an A. He was deeply surprised. "I do not ever hand you an A because I'm your mommy," I told him.

It is worth noting that during his senior year, he brought home 5 trophies and qualified for the national tournament in two events. You can only represent your district at Nationals in one event (which he did).

When he signed up for the ACT exam, the exam preferred by his A list schools, I deliberately downplayed it. "It's no big deal. Plus, you can take it as many times as you want, and they throw out all but the highest score." We didn't get any practice books, but he did do the official ACT online practice, just because taking standardized tests is a skill unto itself, and I wanted the format to be familiar. Had he been his sister, there would have been lectures about how important it was, and how she needed to do her best, but he's a different person. I was very, very casual about it. The last thing he needed was to tie himself in knots.

His math was his lowest score, but - whoops - that was because we sent him in without a calculator. His scores were still right in the target range, and exceeded what he'd need for his B list schools. His lowest score was what his highest ranked B list school wanted as a composite score. But he wanted to take it again, and we totally understood. Armed with a calculator this time, his math score improved by 4 points, now putting him in the ACT's "college ready" range, and in the range for his A list schools. (Take that, naysayers!)

His highest score, science, was in the 30s. No big surprise to us - we know him - but a friend actually said to us, "But I thought that religious people didn't like science." Sigh.

In the fall of his senior year, we hit a small snag. One of his A list university choices required all homeschooled students to have a GED; actually, the state the school was in required it. By then he'd taken the ACT, which, in my opinion, should be enough info for any school, but hey, you jump through whatever hoops you have to.

Again, I downplayed it as no big deal. "It'll be kinda like the ACTs, only less difficult."

Here, though, it got a bit hairier. Our local laws required him, as a minor, to take a GED pre-test before he could take the GED. After the superintendent of schools himself reviewed the scores, he'd let us know if Alex had permission to take the GED. This is because they want to guarantee that minors, who are factored into state and federal numbers, don't show up as drop outs or failures. So of course, the first thing GED candidates have to do is drop out of school. I'm not kidding. If you are enrolled in a public, private, charter or online high school, you have to drop out to take the GED, or even the practice GED.

Not that it affected my homeschooled student, but let's think about that for a second. Let's say that you know you're cutting it close, and may not graduate. You want a diploma, but between work, home and your family situation, it might not happen. Instead of letting you stay in school while you take the GED as a safety net, the law requires you to drop out to even consider it as an option. Really? Does this seem like a good idea to anyone?

When I talked to people, though, many of them defended this policy. "You want kids to stay in school. You don't want them to take the GED. You want them to graduate." My state has one of the worst graduation rates in the country, and my county has one of the worst graduation rates in the state. How could it possibly get any worse? How could we want to make any viable alternative harder? Newspaper accounts like these are our "success" stories: "The Washoe County School District's 2010 graduation rate increased to 63 percent after languishing in the 56 percent range. (Reno Gazette Journal, September 14, 2010)"

That year, 2010, my state ranked 51 in graduation rates, behind every other state and the District of Columbia.

This year, again, there are thousands of kids entering 12th grade who will not graduate even if they pass all of this year's classes. I mean, can anyone give me a reason that they should drop out to even consider the GED? Why shouldn't they have a safety net while they're in school? Would we rather they get an alternative diploma, or none at all?

A reason besides making the numbers look good, I mean. I consider this preoccupation with documentation to the federal and state government, under threat of losing funding, accreditation or jobs, to be equivalent to "cooking the books." But that's a conversation for another day. Back to my kid.

We had one month before the preferred application deadline to set up the pre-test, get it scored, get the official letter letting him take the GED, take the GED, get the scores back, and get them to the university. We took the first available slots for everything. The next pre-test was in 4 days. He had a cold, but we didn't care. We took the spot.

When we told people, some of them started to fret. "What will you do if he doesn't pass?" "They've really tightened up the exam. It's so much harder than it used to be." "After this many years out of school, I don't know if I'd be able to pass." I threatened any Negative Nellies - you will NOT say stuff like that in front of my kid! Good gravy! When my daughter and I went to the bookstore for something, I was glad that my son was at work, so he didn't see the entire shelving unit devoted to GED prep. I didn't want him thinking that it was a big deal.

I had no worries at all. I'm pretty sure that a few people wondered if I really understood the situation.

There are 5 sections of the test. "The math was so easy that I thought at first that they were kidding. I wondered if it was trick questions," he said. He got perfect scores on two sections, science and math. His scores were almost as good in the other three sections. There were hand written notes saying, "Wow!" and "Congratulations!"

Still, the superintendent himself had to review the marks. There is apparently no other entity, or computer program, available to say, "Yup, those scores are passing," or, "Nope, those scores are failing." We waited for the official letter, so we could sign him up for the real test. When we got it, we took the first available testing spot. My son was the youngest person in his testing room, and he got the highest score in the room, hundreds of points over the necessary "passing" mark. The university marked the scores as received two days before the application deadline. Success!

"So, he's done now, right?" his older sister asked. No, I told her. It's only October. We have an entire school year of stuff planned. I have a unit on Shakespearean tragedies planned, a research paper that he needs to write, a debate season to compete in. "I can't believe that you're making him get a diploma AND a diploma!" she said. Yes, I am, I assured her. His homeschool diploma has credits equivalent to (actually, surpassing) the requirements for our county's honors diploma. As far as we're concerned, that's his "real" diploma. The other one is just to satisfy the government, and anyone who worries that his home instruction "didn't keep up" to a public school education.

So, I feel that I can gloat a little more than I could with his sisters. I taught that kid. I coached that competitor. Yeah, it's still all about him, but I get a bit more reflected glory this time. I'm enjoying it; so sue me.

When he got the first acceptance letter from an A list school, we tossed out all the other brochures and applications. Whether the other two schools accepted him or not, the mission was accomplished. He was going where he wanted to go. I was so giddy that I bought him a school hoodie the day he accepted the offer.

 He refused both the GED ceremony to which the county adult education office (repeatedly) invited him, and any of the homeschool ceremonies he could have had. I signed his diploma, stuck a gold seal on it, and dropped it in the Rubbermaid tub where his memorabilia goes. He grudgingly let us take cap and gown photos. He's not big on ceremony.

Now, he's packing silverware, dishes and a crock pot for his apartment. He has a schedule, a roommate, a start date. He's a university student. Just like we did with his sisters, we'll go there for Move-In Day and parent orientation. Then, we'll drive away and leave him on his own.

I think he's ready.

Like every parent, I hope that I'm ready.

February in Pittsburgh

I once lived in a Holiday Inn in Pittsburgh for almost a month.

It was one of our first experiments in homeschool travel. It was our first year homeschooling our kids, and we'd bought lessons from a private school rather than try to create our own. The power plant that employs my husband was building a new unit with technology that was new to them. A company in Pittsburgh had such a unit, so the company sent personnel out to Pennsylvania to take classes and observe. My husband had already spent a week there months earlier. They didn't have the guys room together in standard rooms, but booked each man into a mini suite, with a refrigerator, microwave and sleeper sofa. When they sent him out a second time, for much longer, I thought: I'm self employed, and the kids can do their schoolwork anywhere. So, we bought plane tickets to go join Dad for the month.

My son, daughter and I flew out several days after my husband left. All I had was an address and a MapQuest set of directions to get me from the airport to my destination. We landed at about 5:00 p.m. I had neglected to take into account the fact that I was going night blind, and I'd be driving in the dark. In a rental car. On unfamiliar roads. In a snow storm. I warned my 12 year old and 8 year old - "Do not talk to me. Do not make any noise. Do not annoy each other." It speaks of either their consideration or of their terror of dying a fiery death that there wasn't a peep out of them for the entire 45 minute drive.

I don't recall much in the way of signs of civilization on the highway while driving toward the city. I did go through several unmanned toll booths, stressing out that I had run out of change by the last one. ("Which route did you take?" my husband asked. "I don't remember any toll booths." "I don't know! I just drove where the computer told me to.")

I will never forget my first look at the city. I'd been driving through dark, rural areas when I hit a tunnel. I drove along, not thinking much of it. When I came out the other side, it was the visual equivalent of being in a quiet, dark theater, then having the entire orchestra simultaneously play a crescendo. WAAAHHH! There was the skyline, bright and glittering, and very close, just across the river. It was beautiful and disorienting. I wanted to stop, look, maybe take photos, but I couldn't.

After taking my turn and eventually finding myself in a quieter area, I crawled down a snow covered road, following the instructions I had. I phoned my husband on the cell phone: "Are you in a Holiday Inn?"

"Yep."

"I'm in the parking lot."

This is what the view from our window looked like on most days:

The little red car on the right is our rental, Red.

My mother had always told me that we desert dwellers didn't really understand cold, didn't know what humidity does to the cold. I dismissed that thought. We lived less than an hour from the site of the 1960 Winter Olympics, for goodness sake. We understood cold! We laughed at wimpy California transplants who couldn't take it.

Then I experienced Pennsylvania in February.

OH. MY. We were now the wimps, running from heated buildings to the heated car as fast as we could. There was no sledding, no hiking, and very little outdoor photography. We did something we hardly ever do - took photos through windows.

We'd never experienced an ice storm, where rain falls as liquid, but freezes as soon as it touches anything solid.

We had to chip our way into our car. I'd never seen anything like it.

Mostly, we settled into a comfortable rhythm. In the morning, the kids and I headed out to explore while their dad went to work. We visited almost every museum and historic site in a 45 mile radius. Then, we'd head back to the hotel to do schoolwork in the afternoon, and maybe swim in the indoor, heated pool. When Dan came home, we'd have dinner, then settle in to watch TV or head out to shop or play indoors. On weekends, Dan joined us while we explored yet more museums and historic sites.

We're museum groupies; we were in heaven.

It was so cold that the zoo moved a large number of the animals indoors - the elephants, apes, reptiles, anything not equipped to deal with the cold. Yes, those are lions, African beasts, still outside in the snow.

We explored Fort Pitt, the aviary, the parks, and spent more time than we normally would have at the mall.

We discovered that Pennsylvanians were used to indoor recreation in the winter. In the mall there were indoor playgrounds and mini golf.

Everything looked so different than it does at home; the stone buildings older than my state, the row houses, the ice, the piles of salt spread across the road.

This isn't even a creek or waterfall, it's just an ordinary hillside along the road. That much water habitually weeping out of the ground is profoundly foreign to desert folk.

This is apparently one of the iconic shots of Pittsburgh. We saw postcards and posters taken from this same spot, only in the summertime.

We ate often at the Ponderosa Steak House. We liked the food, and it was amusing that we lived, at home, less than an hour away from the actual site of the Ponderosa Ranch, but we didn't have any of the chain restaurants named after it. Plus, they had Family Nights with free balloons and face painting.

I am not prone to homesickness, but I started being more excited than usual to see places that reminded me of home on TV. Even the California coast looked like "home," its being a familiar place (and only a few hours drive from our house.) Still, our first foray into "travel schooling" proved to be a resounding success.

We're all agreed that one day, though, we need to go back to Pittsburgh - in warmer weather.