Love in a Time of Homeschooling Read Online Free PDF

seemed to stem from a deep inwardness, an engagement with her own imaginative universe, which often cut her off from the customs and schedules of the world around her.
    This trait had already manifested itself in her social life. By age three it was clear that Julia was not engaging readily with her peers. In the classroom, she rarely spoke to other children, unless they spoke first. On the playground, she would dig or climb or run, but usually alone. If other children joined her, she welcomed them, but she seldom looked for companions. “The other children seem comfortable with her,” the teachers assured me. “And she seems fine with them. She doesn’t seem to be shy; she just prefers to be alone.” Then the teachers would tell me about the benefits of independence, and the problems of children who were never happy alone. “To be content with oneself is a gift,” they said. “Our society places too much emphasis on social life.”
    I knew all about that. I knew that genius often springs from solitude, and that Albert Einstein avoided other children. (Mothers with unusual children always point to Albert Einstein.) Little Albert was right to prefer solitude, since the boys of his day spent so much time playing soldier in an ominous prelude to their eventual goose-stepping.
    I had been somewhat solitary as a child, happy with the silence of books and puzzles. But I had always enjoyed two or three good friends with whom I could play whenever the desire struck. And because of my social delicacy, I knew firsthand that people who are happy alone can also yearn for companionship; they can feel their separateness like a deficiency in the bones.
    John, meanwhile, had no sphere of reference for fathoming Julia’s lone-wolf nature. He had been a social child, and was now a happily extroverted adult—the sort who could stretch a five-minute grocery store errand into an hour-long social event. To him, Julia’s preference for solitude was a strange anomaly, but no great cause for concern.
    â€œGiven a choice between a box of Legos and a pair of kids, Julia will choose the Legos. Maybe that’s antisocial, or maybe she just knows what she wants. What can you do?”
    I, for one, was determined to do something . Over the next few years I planned playdates and sleepovers and elaborate birthday parties. I took Julia to dance classes and art workshops—any place she might feel encouraged to be social.
    â€œIsn’t this too much?” John asked. “Ice hockey was my only scheduled activity when I was a kid; other than that, I just played outside.”
    â€œBut you lived in a neighborhood full of children,” I explained. “If Julia wants to see kids her age, I have to bring them out here, or take her to events in town. And she seems to like these activities. At least, that’s what she says.”
    My efforts bore fruit in playdates and birthday party invitations. Still, Julia never became easygoing in a group. Left in a room with one child, she might start a conversation. Left with three or more, she would usually walk away.
    Meanwhile, preschool ended and she was destined for the public schools. Our small Montessori program was not offering kindergarten the following fall, something they had done in the past and would resume in the future. Instead, Julia’s teachers said farewell with cautionary phrases.
    â€œI hope Julia is assigned teachers who will appreciate her unique nature”—the parting words of Carmen, Julia’s upstairs teacher.
    â€œShe would be an ideal candidate for a Montessori elementary program,” Molly added. “Her style of learning is different from the public school routine.” But the nearest Montessori program was an hour away, and I was not willing to face the drive, or the steep tuition. Besides, our town’s small elementary school seemed charming—far superior to anything John or I had experienced as a