I want to tell myself (and you, my dear reader) the reason I found the documentary Jesus Camp so unsettling ISN’T because it’s about Evangelical Christians. I want to believe that if the film was about Tupperware saleswomen or European soccer fanatics, I’d find their behavior as disconcerting. But I’m not so sure.

My spiritual belief system aside, it’s the power of Faith that I find so fascinating, yet so frightening. Whether that devotion is lavished on Jesus, plastic tumblers or the World Cup, I just don’t get it. Wish I did. Looks like a good buzz.

The film stated that 75-percent of homeschooled children are Evangelical Christians. Maybe not in my neck of the woods, but nationwide, I can believe it. And it was a homeschooling mother’s logic as she and her young preacher man son discussed Evolution vs. Creationism that I found befuddling. It’s the Leap I can’t make. She’d call it a Leap of Faith. I call it Failed Logic.

I could easily relate to the mother when she questioned, “Why would I send them [her children] somewhere else for eight hours a day?” My sentiments exactly, Hon. And I share her conviction that, as home educators (not to mention parents), we have the right to teach whatever we want to our children. But we part ways over what we teach our children.

I’ll concede she’s correct when she says that unlike the iffy science of evolution, Creationism provides all the answers. But that rational only works because God said so. So unless you’re willing to accept that premise as gospel (excuse the pun), Creationism won’t hold water. But to argue the point is pointless.

When the film ran again later that night, I couldn’t watch it. And I can usually suffer through anything at least twice. Funny, I recorded the PBS documentary, Tupperware! because I just could not get enough of Brownie Wise. Talk about cult of personality…

Look, I’m not interested in saving my soul. But saving my fresh vegetables, now that’s something to believe in.

After watching the near-perfect In the Heat of the Night (1967) with Sidney Poitier and Rod Steiger, I hung in for its not-so-perfect sequel, They Call Me Mr. Tibbs! (A lot transpired in Amerikkka in those three years.) I remembered the crime story aspect, (the preacher, Martin Landau, did it) but I was more intrigued with the relationship between Tibbs and his wise-ass tween son.

In one scene, the father catches his son smoking a cigarette in their garden shed, and then takes him inside to share cigars and liquor. As Tibbs wastes his breathe explaining the value of hard work and being the best (his son prefers being “second-smartest” in his class so all the kids don’t hate him), naturally the boy gets sick. Man, could they even portray that in a movie these days? Murdering a kid with a machete is one thing, killing him with tobacco and booze is something else.

When we found out Morgan had been caught smoking cigarettes with Austin this summer, I never considered giving him a pack. Problem is, he’d puff past the nausea and then he’d want a case of Marlboros. I explained that ultimately I couldn’t keep him from any bad habit, but since he’s only 13, it’s my job to try.

Sooner or later, he WILL try cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, sex and who knows what other reckless, fun stuff. And that was the point I wanted to make with Morgan—we all develop behaviors, habits and addictions that could kill us—physically, emotionally or financially. And when I concluded my cautionary tale, he never questioned how I knew those things. Maybe he knows better. Because when he does ask, I’m gonna tell him, straight up.

Sometimes the best example I can be for my kids is a bad one.

I keep my mother’s ashes in a small red jar on my bedroom bookcase. Sometimes I shake it, asking “Momma? Momma, are you in there?”

Funny, I think more about my mother now than when she was alive. I mean, I always remembered her birthday, anniversary and Mother’s Day. I saw her several times a month, called her more, though not as much as she’d like. So it wasn’t as if I didn’t think of her in those obligatory ways adult children do. But recently I find myself contemplating her feelings and how they relate to my own.

When I was in my 30’s, I began to sound like my mother. Any 30-something, especially if you have kids, is shocked the first time a statement spills out of your mouth that you can only attribute to your parent. One of those “I don’t care what the other kids are doing,” flashbacks that stings with the memory of swearing you’d never say that to your kid. Yet there you go. Never say never.

When I was in my 40’s, I began to look like my mother. Truth is, I’ve always looked like my Mom, especially in photos as teens with the same shoulder-length, wavy hair. But I don’t remember her hair ever being that long. But I do remember her as she worked her way through her 40’s into menopause madness. Oh, yes, I’m a Walsh woman, all right.

When I hit my 50’s, I began to feel like my mother. And this is an aspect of relating to Alice that I never considered. Granted, I know we share alotta OCD traits. But now when I find myself wishing for a little more than I’m ever gonna get—be it a gift, time, or praise—I realize my mother must have felt that same twinge. That “It’s downhill from here,” despair that any crone in her right mind will acknowledge.

It’s sad. Because you don’t know how you’re gonna feel until you get here. And by the time I got here, Momma was gone.

Okay, Britney Spear’s 16-year-old sister is pregnant. So what? Join the club, honey. Alotta us baby-boomers were teenage Moms. So were our mothers. And certainly, at some point in our illustrious, holier-than-thou history, 16 was considered primo breeding age.

In fact, according to the NCHS/CDC report "Births to Teenagers in the United States, 1940-2000," the birth rate for U.S. teenagers in 2000 was 48.7 births per 1,000 women aged 15–19 years, the lowest level ever reported. In 1957, the rate was 96.3 per 1,000, about double its current level.

Of course, in 2000, Baltimore led the nation with 22-percent of the city’s kids born to women under 20. No wonder cynics believed that our former Mayor Kurt L. Schmoke's slogan The City That Reads should have been The City That Breeds.

But my beef isn’t about why this girl got pregnant, what she (or her author-wannabe Mom) should do about it or, apparently the most pressing concern—if Nickelodeon should cancel her TV show. That whole choice thing is waaaaay too personal of an issue for me to discuss here. Hence the word “choice.”

What I find so infuriating is how quick therapists, counselors and other parenting “experts,” including some parents themselves, are to want to tell us what to tell our kids about this situation. Whatta they call that? A “Teachable Moment?” Or is it more accurately a “Marketable Moment? Thanks, Jamie Lynn. Maybe the writers can work the baby into next season’s Zoey 101 plotline.

Why would I need a script to help me talk with my kids about our feelings? You only need a script when you’re not gonna speak your own Truth. And this time seems like a real good time to be real. Gosh, no matter what you say to your children, you better be honest. They might not agree and you can’t make them. Ultimately, whatever it is, it’s gonna be your kid’s choice.

And you know that’s The Truth. Because you were a teenager once, too.

Emily Dickenson is a little too flowery for my taste, but her poetry is ideal to use for our studies, especially as examples of metaphors, similes and personifications. And although I can’t articulate why I know those writing techniques are important in the education of Morgan, they are.

Granted you could read, “The hills untied their bonnets,” never identify the phrase as a personification, yet glean its meaning. But, I believe, the quality and depth of that visualization is enhanced by the acknowledgement of the author’s intent. Oh, she meant to do that…

So if you aren’t using a structured grammar or poetry program that explains those concepts, how are children introduced to them? Maybe unschooled kids read prose or poetry that uses such comparisons; they intrinsically get it and move on without conversation. Because I’ve never heard a kid ask, “Hey, Mom, what’s a metaphor?” Have you?

The same can be said for science—the three states of matter, the water cycle, potential vs. kinetic energy. Math, geography, history, language, literature, even music and art. Concepts build from and mutate into others. Can you appreciate Picasso without being aware of his admiration of El Greco? Probably. Would a kid know to ask who or what influenced Pablo? Would he care? And does it even matter? I don’t know. But all those Devil-in-the-details sure make for a more interesting story.

Knowledge is power.

I’m only late when I’m lost, I don’t give a shit, I know I can get away with it, or any variation thereof. So when a homeschooler signs up to attend an event and then doesn’t show up at all, I’m insulted. Because I know, in her case, it’s not because she’s lost.

Online databases are set up where families can register for field trips, single classes or on-going co-ops. There’s usually an RSVP date with columns for the parent’s name, the number of kids, any payment needed or job assignments like bringing a craft, story or snack. Please and Thank You.

Now, I’m no Emily Post, but I’ve always held the belief that when you Répondez s'il-vous-plaît, that means you are committing to attending the event. And while French is not my native language, I don’t believe RSVP translates into “Do whatever the fuck you want.” But, apparently, I was wrong.

Listen, we have all used the-dog-ate-my-homework excuse. And I’ve boned my parents more times than I like to admit by being beyond fashionably late or a total no-show at family events. And I’ve crapped out on many an appointment, party and dinner date in my half-century. But to post a rambling regret the morning of a kids’ co-op is inexcusable. Even for me.

Usually the posts involve sick children or dead cars. Some of us can play the “gotta work” trump card. But this week, we get a straightforward “We won’t be there.” No contrived excuse. No ambiguous “We CAN’T make it,” like a 100-year flood or Klingon force field has blocked their way. Not even an obligatory “Sorry.” Just your basic “Screw you.”

These co-ops don’t happen through spontaneous generation. Even something as seemingly simple as a Moroccan bangle bracelet craft or Nigerian caramelized bananas snack takes thought, effort, expense, time and creativity. So when a parent casually reneges on her promise to provide an important element to an activity, like her family’s attendance, she goes on my “No, screw YOU,” list.

And that, my pretty, is a place nobody wants to be.

It was suppose to be an Assyrian Cherub.

No, not one of those chubby babies with wings and the Betty Boop lips. Instead, in the ancient land a thousand miles east of Egypt, a cherub was a mythical creature with the body of a lion or bull, a man’s head and eagle’s wings. The animal was sculpted with five legs so that when you looked at it from the front, you saw two legs, standing still. But when viewed from the side, you’d see the four-legged creature walking. Pretty clever, huh?

Morgan’s sculpture studies are straightforward and two-fold. First an art history lesson, followed by a relevant hands-on project. So we looked at a Mid-eastern map, read a few pages about Assyrian cherubs and their kings then compared photos of Assyrians’ depiction of humans to Egyptian art: muscular and manly vs. sleek and sexless. At this point, Morgan pulls out his self-made gray Play-Doh to form his own low relief sculpture of a cherub—the five-legged kind. We review: bull, beard, wings, five legs. Got it.

I’ll spare us all the recounting of watching my talented-in-other-ways, 13-year-old son spend close to an hour laboring over a creation that I can only describe as a pile of cat shit. I mean that’s what it looked like. And it was pretty bad, too.

Yet does that matter? Morgan’s sculpture had all its required features, even if I couldn’t really see them until he pointed them out. But once I realized that pencil hole was the eye, I could orientate the sculpture, turn it right side up and it all came together. I’d date it to The Cubist Period. Good job. Class over.

Now this exercise may strike you as one of those useless Jeopardy Trivia facts I’ve railed about. But the truth is, understanding and appreciating another culture’s creative expressions is probably one of the best ways to understand and appreciate your world, culture and yourself.

Besides, the Assyrians’ five-legged cherub concept—come on, how trippy is that?

Yet another humbling real life opportunity to realize what a huge responsibility home educating your child can be and how you can fail so miserably even when you (think you) are paying attention.

A few nights ago, Morgan and I were watching a TNA Wrestling PPV (I guess that’s not gonna play to my competency factor here) and during the Divas match (strike two) an older announcer was drooling over some busty blonde tag team. That led to a comparison to Jerry “The King” Lawler, WWE’s original over-the-hill wet-dreamer.

“How old do you think he is?” asked M.

And this is where it all started going terribly wrong. I looked up The King on Wikipedia and wrote his birth year and this year on a scrap of paper and handed it to Morgan. Because instead of staying in the girl-on-girl moment, I clicked into Home Educating Mom mode and turned a simple question into a subtraction problem.

I could see Morgan was hedging and then he asked me to just tell him. But when I could see he was totally thrown by this second grade math problem, I persisted. Not out of good parenting, but out of selfish pride.

Morgan kept staring at the numbers on the paper. So I got snippy (strike three). His eyes started filling with tears. He had totally forgotten how to “borrow and carry.” But once I finally reminded him, M did the math fairly quickly, got the right answer and then, per my insistence, explained it all rather clearly.

So is there something to be said to rote memorization? I mean we’ve done oodles of multi-digit subtraction problems without problems. But since then, we’ve moved onto aspects of math where subtraction like this hasn’t occurred. If I had made him memorize his subtraction flash cards ad nauseum, would the answer have just sprung correctly from his head?

Granted, once I said the words “borrow and carry,” it all clicked. But does that mean he needs to practice more, every day? Or do I wait for real world opportunities to spring up? Obviously, that didn’t work. Maybe we need to focus on those type of usable, basic skills instead of the Final Jeopardy trivia that fills his Calvert School textbooks and overflows my public schooled brain.

Any other time, this prospect would be a definite turn-on. But when faced with what could be over a decade (PreK-12th grade) on this uncharted desert isle, the XXX novelty wears off pretty fast. Believe me, when you’re trying to get something accomplished, you need Mary Anns, not Gingers.

My current homeschool head shaking results from a recent thread regarding registration for some upcoming Spring co-ops. Most leaders, myself included, have already scheduled their class locations, usually at public libraries—take it or leave it. But a few co-ops have yet to post their meeting details; so one mother asked about the proposed site(s) for an art co-op.

Before that co-op leader could respond with her preferences, there was a flurry over which library branch would be too far for which family and why. Now, in all fairness, if these women had been discussing the requirement to drive to another state three times a week for two years, I could dig it. However, the locations in questions were no-way, no-how more than an additional half-hour drive in any direction. And the co-op will only meet once-a-fucking-month for five months.

So, I ask you, is five times five times too many for these mothers to push themselves “too far” to benefit their children’s creativity? And what makes somewhere “too far,” anyway? The cost of gas, wear and tear on the minivan, fear of unfamiliar roadways, toddlers’ potty-breaks? Or is it because their breathing tubes won’t reach that far?