By Cara Stolen
@carastolen

“Hey Mom?” 

I meet Royce’s gaze in the rearview mirror and grip the steering wheel a little tighter, bracing myself for (what feels like) the five-thousandth question of the day. “Yeah, buddy?”

“Why did that guy make round bales AND small bales when everyone else makes big bales OR small bales?” He asks, gesturing toward the hay field on our right. 

I sigh in spite of myself. So far today I’ve been prompted to explain the way colors work (both the color wheel and the reflection/absorption that allows us to see color at all), why our immediate family has blue eyes while grandma has brown eyes (I maybe took this one too far when I introduced Mendel and his peas to the conversation), and to identify a handful of plants and birds (some of which I knew, some of which I decidedly did not). We are in the thick of the “question factory” years, to use a phrase coined by a family friend. And while I find it a little trying, I don’t mind all of Royce’s questions for the most part. 

But questions like this latest one stump me. Questions about why someone behaves a certain way or makes a specific decision. Questions I can’t easily answer with a quick Google search. 

“I don’t know, Royce,” I finally admit. 

***

It’s an Instagram post, of all things, that sends me over the edge. Yet another friend announcing their decision to homeschool rather than enroll their child in traditional, public school kindergarten. 

“Am I missing something?” I ask Levi when he peeks into my office to say goodbye. Tears well in my eyes as I ask, “Are we crazy to put Royce in school? Why is everyone else we know keeping their kids home?” 

This is not the first time we’ve discussed this topic. Not even close. In fact, I spent an entire week this spring mapping out a potential work/homeschool schedule before coming to the conclusion that said schedule would require me to give up sleep entirely. 

As usual, Levi is level-headed and calm (though clearly exasperated by having this conversation again) where I am emotional and, uh, not calm. “No, we’re not crazy. It would be great to have him home and have a more flexible schedule, but until one or both of us works for ourselves it just isn’t an option.” 

End of conversation. Case closed. He leans across my desk to kiss me goodbye, then heads back to the ranch for the afternoon.

Except I’m not ready to let it go, and as I watch his truck pull out of the driveway I reach for my phone again, this time to text a girlfriend whose son is a year younger than Royce. 

Um, did you see who else is homeschooling now?! Can you even believe it? What is she thinking?

My thumb hovers over the blue send arrow, but I hesitate as I re-read my own words. I set my phone down on my desk and look out the window. I’m looking for reassurance. I’m looking for validation. But instead of admitting my lack of certainty, instead of leading with vulnerability, I channel all those feelings into… judgment. 

***

I discovered the world of parenting books when Royce was two or three months old. An uncertain and insecure new mom, I was desperate for someone to tell me how to care for the helpless creature in my arms who cried non-stop and didn’t sleep. I read Babywise, Moms on Call, and Secrets of the Baby Whisperer. But when I read The Attachment Parenting Book by William and Martha Sears, I knew I’d found my parenting Bible. I was convicted and inspired, motivated and obsessed. I was convinced following Dr. Sears’ methods would produce what I feared I couldn’t create on my own: a happy, well-adjusted adult son. 

I would baby wear! Breastfeed! Co-sleep (okay, co-nap, I was too nervous to co-sleep)! I became an attachment parenting evangelist, singing the praises of Dr. Sears and his revolutionary parenting style to anyone I cornered, including veteran moms and, on one memorable occasion, a grandma. 

Insert all the cringe-face and eye-roll emojis here. 

But the worst, most shameful part wasn’t how hell-bent I was on preaching the tenets and benefits of attachment parenting. No, the worst part was how I judged moms who were choosing a different path. 

Weren’t they worried sleep training their baby would be the reason their adult son or daughter wanted nothing to do with them? Didn’t they think about the long term implications of letting their infant cry it out? 

Didn’t they know my way was the best and only way to raise healthy, well-adjusted adults? 

(Just, yikes. No wonder it took me so many years to make mom friends.)

Ten months later, when Royce was a year old and still nowhere near sleeping through the night, I remembered a conversation I’d had with a friend about sleep training. I’d listened to her explain how she’d taught each of her kids to sleep by letting them cry it out, and couldn’t believe I was friends with someone so heartless. But after a year of no sleep, I threw up my hands in exhausted surrender and decided to take her suggestion. A week of hardcore, Babywise-style sleep-training later, I woke up from my first full night of sleep in a year and tossed The Attachment Parenting Book in a donation box (alongside my copy of Babywise and Secrets of the Baby Whisperer). Then I dropped the box off at Goodwill and swore I would never again subscribe to the idea that there is one “right” way to parent.

***

Usually, Royce is unfazed when I answer one of his questions with “I don’t know.” But today, this response incredulates him. 

“Mom, do you even know anything?” 

Always quick to reprimand disrespect, I sit up straight in the driver's seat to meet his eyes again in the mirror. But his expression of pure curiosity makes me pause. 

I want to point out how many truly difficult questions of his I had answers to today (doesn’t he care that I took the time to explain both genetics AND physics?!). I want to fire back with a retort about how I know the answers to questions that actually HAVE answers. But I stop myself and think again about the question he asked. 

I have no idea why the farmer down the road from our house would choose to bale his alfalfa into two different bale sizes. Maybe a baler broke, or maybe he had two different customers with two different needs. Maybe he wanted to try something new, but didn’t want to commit an entire cutting to his experiment. Maybe it had something to do with moisture or stem length or some farming-specific detail I don’t know anything about. 

The bottom line is that there likely IS an answer to Royce’s question; it’s just the only person who knows it… is the farmer. 

Taking a deep breath, I say “Royce, we can’t ever really know why somebody else chooses to do something unless we ask them. I don’t know why our neighbor decided to bale his field that way, but it doesn’t mean he did it wrong. Just different. If you want, we can stop by and ask him. I bet he would be happy to explain it to you.” 

The backseat is quiet for a while. 

“Okay, Mom, I’ll think about it and let you know.” 

***

I pick up my phone again and stare at the words on the screen in my hand. 

Um, did you see who else is homeschooling now?! Can you even believe it? What is she thinking?

I think about the conversation I had with Royce earlier this morning on the way to town, and wonder why it’s so easy for me to say “I don’t know” to him when it’s so difficult to admit I don’t know in other areas of my life. 

It isn’t that my friend is doing something wrong by deciding to homeschool. It isn’t that I think homeschooling is bad or that I think she’ll do a bad job of it. It’s that I feel insecure about my own decision to send Royce to public school when I’m surrounded by people making a different choice. 

I think back on my babywearing, co-napping, new mom self and understand now why she clung so tightly to her attachment parenting book. It wasn’t so much that she believed her way was the only way, it was that she wanted there to be a right way. 

Again, I re-read the words I’ve typed. I don’t want to be the kind of woman who bad-mouths other women, and I don’t want to be the kind of friend who gossips about her friends. Remembering Royce’s posture of curiosity, I know what I need to do. While he never did decide whether or not to ask our neighbor his question (because he’s six, and moved on to his next impossible question 10 minutes later), that doesn’t mean I can’t take this opportunity to ask mine. 

Selecting the text with a swift double tap, I delete the judgment-filled words I’ve typed. Then I open up a text to my newly-announced homeschooling friend. 

You guys decided to homeschool? I’d love to hear more about why. I don’t know if we’re making the right choice, but I know we’ll miss you at school next year.