It was really way too hot for mini-golf. My octogenarian Dad quit at Hole #9. But the rest of us forged on. I had selected this 19-hole outdoor course for its “Windmill” obstacles. I didn’t want the real golf challenge of fake putting greens. I wanted the goofy attempts to get your ball across the stagnant water hazards and through the jury-rigged metal contraptions that, if you hit your ball just right, would carry it down and around and drop it into the cup for a hole in one!

Our game, however, was interrupted when two tiny boys, maybe six years old, came busting onto Hole #15, just as we were sinking our putts. They were at the higher level of the course, rolling their balls into the gutter that wound under an old wooden shed, and then hopping down to our lower level to watch their golf balls come rolling out—right onto our field of play.

“Where is your mother?” I asked, unable to resist. Looking around, I saw no adult with that panicked “lost child” gaze on his/her face, zigzagging across the courses, calling out a child’s name. I did see a few parents mindless talking on their cell phone while their children cheated on their par. But nobody was coming to lay claim to these kids.

“My mother had something else to do today,” replied one of the boys. And with that, the urchins scampered back onto the upper course to repeat their routine. All this time passes, but still no parent surfaces. We play through.

Several holes later, I notice my 30-something son staring back at Hole #15, befuddled. Those kids were still there, still playing; now with an adult male and an even-older woman both trying to talk the boys off the green. No grabbing them by the arms, swatting their butts and dragging them kicking and screaming to the car. Just quiet begging and pleading— without results.

Even worse, it turns out that I’d seen Grandma sitting nearby on the fake rocks (in the real shade) all the while her wards were wrecking havoc on our game. But she never budged. My son was flabbergasted. It’s parenting episodes like this that make for the best birth control.

Not every homeschooling mom fantasizes about murder. But every single one has plotted her Great Escape, one way or the other.

That Wednesday night, sitting at the table with my teen, waiting—watching—waiting for him to compound that fucking interest, I was coming out of my skin. (If you’ve never helped with homework: Imagine a friend telling a story that’s taking waaay too long and at some point, you just wanna scream, “Get to the fucking point!” But you don’t. )

As the primary home educator in our house, it’s all on me, baby. Whatever my son has/hasn’t academically learned over the past nine years has been my doing. Even if it’s just been taking him to a docent-led museum tour, another parent-led co-op or sending him and his father off to some homeschool game day so I can dance naked in the living room, I spearhead the projects. Most of the time, however, it’s been him and me at a table.

Yeah, yeah, yeah – all that kids’ self-directed learning crap. It is absolutely true. Kids DO explore and learn about what interests them. But I doubt if Morgan is ever gonna ask to learn Geometry. But that’s what I’m gonna teach him this coming school year. Or I should say, “that’s what we’re gonna learn together.” (Come on, how much Geometry to YOU remember?)

So get real. There are moments when we who homeschool have our doubts. Not so much about our child’s ability, but about our own.

Eight years ago, sitting at the table with my six-year-old, waiting—watching—waiting for him to sound out the consonant blend “CH”, I was coming out of my skin then, too. So does that mean I shouldn’t be home educating my kid? No, if anything, questioning my abilities/motives/sanity has made me a better teacher. But that rock is still on the table.

… And I’m thinking, “I could bash him in the head with this rock. But then I’d have to kill his father, too. Better wait until payday.”

Fortunately for my son struggling with Compound Interest and his father sleeping on the sofa, Friday was a few days off. By then, the test would be in the mail.

Ah, the mind of a homeschooling Mom. Seriously. If you ever meet a woman who’s home educating her child(ren) and she tells you she’s never run a similar Escape scenario in her head, she’s lying. And, no, Andrea Yates doesn’t count.

One of my prompts back to Blogging included a Welcome post to a homeschooling newbie on a Yahoo Group:

“We started HSing in 1st gr and now I’ll be starting HSing through high school in Sept.!!! It is so much fun that it all goes by all to fast…ENJOY!!!’

“So much fun???” Obviously this woman is doing something wrong.

And “it all goes by all to(o) fast…” I don’t know, I gotta tell you, that night, waiting for my high schooler to “Find the total amount and the interest on $506.09 invested for 4 years at 3½% per year compounded annually,” Time was standing still. And I needed to Jump.

I know I can’t be the only self-aware homeschooling mother out there who questions whether home educating her kid was the biggest fucking mistake she’s ever made in her life. Look, don’t get me wrong; I am committed to the belief that it’s my Constitutional Right to fuck up my own kid. (After witnessing just Public School First Grade head games, it was time to go.) But, damn, there are days when I understand why most parents ship their kids off to “school.” For better or worse.

The rub is, figuring out which is which. And for who—parent or child?