School taps into so much around how we are bringing up our kids and what we prioritise in their education. It shines a light on economy, politics, the care of the vulnerable. Big questions arise around working with a spread thin system, or do we completely re-imagine what could be? These are weighty issues, and little did I know of how we’d find ourselves struggling in the thick of them. So here begins our messy story of school falling apart, and us carving out something new.

The beginning

We adopted beautiful toddler twins. But with the impact of early life trauma, they carry wounds that run deep; body, mind and soul. So let’s just say, they started school on the back foot, and with a Mum whose hunch was, ‘are they ready?’ We still hadn’t mastered the basics, do we have to be thrust into a schooling experience, where the emphasis is quickly on reading, writing and arithmetics?! In a class of 30, a stretched staff-child ratio, ‘how would they fare?’ I wondered. But my boy held an ‘Education Health Care Plan’ (a legal document that states his needs the school must agree to meet). He’d have his ‘Mary Poppins’ figure, and that’s where we’ll take the story- just my boy.

On leaving the school gates

Reception wasn’t bad. The kids did OKAY. But I quickly realised that my ‘Mary Poppins’ saviour wasn’t going to magically appear. The Teaching Assistants seemed to be paired up with high need kids, and I questioned, ‘does my boy get a look-in?’ His toileting made little progress, and he’d often be anxiously wired awake for hours at night, manically reciting phonics. Then we were met with mad post-school hours; a sense of holding in compliantly all day and then utterly crumbling at home. World war three erupted on leaving the school gates. It became IMPOSSIBLE.

So I’d meet with teachers, and inarticulately try to explain his ‘masking.’ “What help would he get?” I’d beg. There would be moments of collaboration to ease the pressure, but there was also a sense of not seeing the need. “Butter wouldn’t melt” teachers would say. And though he had some weekly interventions, it began to grate on me that his school-life and home-life were deemed as two separate issues. I became paranoid maybe I looked to be the issue; an anxious mum overplaying things.

The ‘stupid small green book’

We were on our knees at home, yet teachers wanted us putting more work in around academics. I asked for him to not have to endure spelling tests, and the dreaded reply I received was, ‘he doesn’t mind the spelling tests, the only thing he’s upset about is that you’ve lost his book!’ This was a red flag to a bull. Did she realise the carnage of our home-life, a stupid small green book with pink crosses and marks out of 10 was the LAST thing I cared about! If anything, it symbolised everything I hated about schooling. If I found it, I’d burn the bloody thing! It was in these moments I wanted to whip my boy off the treadmill of schooling priorities, and give him breathing space.

The daring home educators

And I’d meet such people who’d done so! Home educators who boldly presented me with another option, a holistic education. Children were no longer crippled under comparison, and their gifts were nurtured. Character development and emotional wellbeing was seen as key; learning could gently build from there.

Even the whole concept of ‘learning’ was opened up to something more mysterious and inclusive. Play was honoured, rather than compressed into token short bursts. The mind, body and spirit were given equal value. I met teenage home-educated kids who were not some weirdo unsocialised breed of citizens, but well-rounded kids who were working towards goals. There were home ed communities who had found a rhythm together, with people and provisions who held families as they dared to pioneer a new way of education.

This seemed quite appealing! We’d hit the first week of the summer holidays, and escape to the beach. I’d watch my knackered boy build sandcastles, and emerge into a kid who could play again. The pull of home education tugged away. I imagined a life where the pressure of school was released, we could press reset, and let things organically grow from there.

But this was too ‘airy fairy’ my husband contested. Did we really want to opt out of the reliable ‘support system’ of school? “What was the plan?” he’d grill away. And I didn’t really know, maybe some wild trust that we could step out, and all would be okay?! But my husband wasn’t there, and we’d often rage into the silly hours of night over this issue. Annoyingly, I understood his questioning. Could we pull this off in carrying kids with additional needs? It was an unknown, and I’d spend the summer feeling stuck and sad about the whole saga. 

And then too soon September would roll around, and back on went the school jumpers. I’d sit in those same old meetings, with the same heart-wrenching feeling there was ‘something more’ for our kiddies. Hoping that one day we’d be ready to take the plunge. But in the meantime, I’d surrender to the un-ideal, let my kids throw their bags down after school, make ZERO EFFORT to find that spelling book, and beckon my twins to live as free-spirits in the world.

Part 2 in this series is out next month.

This post was written and illustrated by Meg Wicks — a home educating parent and member of the Streams community. Meg writes under a pseudonym to protect her family’s privacy in adoption.