Everybody Goes to School

The school bus stopped in front of me.   Red lights flashing, its sign popped out on the left signaling drivers to stop in all directions.  A group of a half dozen kids came tumbling out onto the sidewalk, laughing, talking, lugging their heavy backpacks.  Two boys pulled their hoodies over their heads for protection against the cold November rain that had jusp begun falling.  Three girls went down one street, the rest of the kids started walking in the other direction into the subdivision.   Each waved a half-raised hand at eachother as they parted ways. 

My chest suddenly began to swell.  The words of a close family member rang in my ears, "But everybody goes to school." 

Not everybody.

The bus lurched forward and I took my first opportunity to cut into the left lane, passing it before it stopped again.  I breathed deeply.  Am I depriving my children of something that "everyone does?"  Is school some right of passage, some secret club, some necessary part of human development that my children are going to miss because of a choice that I made for them?  This question is one that has been filling the silent places in my head for the last two months.  Have I made the right choice?

I have a feeling that this question, this thought, this creeping doubt will be my meditation partner for some time to come.  I wonder now if I'm looking for a sign, a mile marker, some crowning accomplishment that will clear this stubborn cobweb from the nether-regions of my brain. 

7:36pm      I am nestled into my couch with a huge cup of coffee (writer's fuel).  If you have ever sat on my couch, you know that "nestling" really is the only way to describe the act of using my couch.  It's a big, wide, red fluffy couch that swallows you whole when you sit down.  It's so comfortable that I'm afraid I'd fall asleep if not for my large mug of creamy, sweet, French pressed coffee.  Nectar of the gods.

 It's quiet in here except for the ticks and hums of my laptop and my daughter's pencil scratching against her notepad. Cady, my seven year old daughter, is also writing her first novel.  My husband has taken our son to Breakdancing class.  The boys will be gone at least another hour and a half.  My mind turns back now to that question, the nagging doubt.

I look over at my daughter's blue lined pages, full from edge to edge with penciled words.  She has written seven-hundred and thirty-nine words in three days.  I'm sure she will be over eight-hundred by midnight tonight, judging by the intensity with which she's writing now.  She notices me watching her.

"Mom?" she asks, tapping her eraser against the page.  "Can I keep writing until I fall asleep?  I mean, like literally fall asleep on top of my paper?"

I smile at her.  Even though I can't see myself, I know my eye twinkles.  "Sure."

I'm not sure if this is a "sign" or not.  Perhaps it is just step on my long journey toward affirmation.  My daughter is passionate about writing, now, in this moment.  And in this moment, she is able to take her passion as far as it will go.  That has to count for something.

But doesn't everybody go to school?