On Choosing To Teach Them Ourselves

I want the very best for my boys.

Not in the loud, competitive way the world often defines “best.” Not in a résumé-building, over-scheduled, gold-star way. I mean in the truest sense of the word. I want to give them the right tools. The right ingredients. The right exposure. The right kind of confidence that comes from actually understanding the world they are walking into.

Right now, I am still caring for tiny humans. Snack requests, muddy shoes, warm cheeks pressed into my leg. But I can feel the shift coming. Especially with Clover. He is three now. And I know every mother thinks her child is bright, but I hear it from others too, and I see it with my own eyes. He understands things. He connects dots. He negotiates in a way that is almost impressive. Not manipulative in a malicious way, but observant. Strategic. He knows how to make something work in his favor.

He remembers things that surprise me. He will be quiet in the car and then casually reference something from a year ago, a place we went, something someone said. They say children don’t form lasting memories from zero to three. I am not so sure anymore. Watching him grow has made me look forward more seriously. Not in a worried way. In a deliberate way.

As he moves toward school age, I find myself asking deeper questions. What shaped me well? What didn’t? What do I wish I had understood sooner?

I grew up active. I grew up capable. I learned many beautiful things. But I did not learn how to balance a checkbook. I did not understand taxes. I did not fully grasp how government functions today. I did not learn how food is grown or how agriculture truly works. I didn’t understand mechanics in a practical way, how systems move, how engines work, how things are built and repaired.

And I certainly wasn’t taught how to truly understand my body. Nutrition beyond a food pyramid. Hormones. Strength. Longevity. Ownership.

So much of public education felt like moving quickly to keep the group together. You breeze past entire subjects because someone else isn’t ready, or because the calendar demands it. Children do not all learn at the same pace. They do not all burn for the same subjects. Some need more time. Some need to go deeper. Some need to move their bodies while they learn. Some need silence.

So I want to follow their rhythm.

If Clover shows fascination with how something works, I want to take him further down that road. If his brother becomes obsessed with animals or soil or numbers or history, I want to lean into that instead of rushing him along to stay aligned with a standardized schedule.

Homeschooling has been on my heart since the moment I had Clover. It wasn’t a reaction to anything specific. It was instinct. With the state of our world, with how stretched the school systems are, with how difficult it is to truly cultivate individual potential inside a classroom of many, I believe teaching them ourselves is the best option for our family. Not because I think I can do it perfectly. But because I am willing to do it intentionally.

I don’t just want to educate them academically. I want to shape their character and competence.

I want them to understand how to grow food. How to respect land. How to fix what is broken before replacing it. I want them to understand mechanics, how engines run, how systems function, how things are built. I want them to know how money works. How to file taxes. How to evaluate leadership. How to think critically about the world around them. I want them to understand their bodies, strength, nutrition, endurance, discipline. I want them to know what it feels like to be capable.

And beyond curriculum, I want their education to feel textured. We have horses. I want them to know what I learned, how to approach a thousand-pound animal calmly. How to work hard in a barn. How to fall and get back up. How to respect something powerful without fearing it. I want them on skis for long stretches of winter. On mountains. Learning endurance. Weather. Patience. Risk assessment. I want them around people with strong work ethic. With manners. With presence. With skill.

For as long as I can, I will guide them directly. And when I reach the edge of my own capacity, because I will, I will bring in mentors. Educators. Craftsmen. Coaches. Men and women who can model what I cannot. This is not about isolation. It is about curation. This is their one childhood. They're one foundation. I am responsible for that.

I feel that responsibility deeply, especially raising boys in a world where so many men lack the skills, discipline, and steadiness required to lead and provide well. I want my sons to grow into men who can support themselves first. Who understand work. Who respect women. Who are strong in body and mind.

That does not happen accidentally. It is built. And I am excited for this chapter.

This summer, I am attending the Great Homeschool Convention in Austin. I want to learn everything I can. I want to listen, observe, take notes, ask questions. I want to approach this thoughtfully, not emotionally.

And on our property sits a little old rock house. Solid. Quiet. Waiting.

I can already see it, a small schoolhouse space. Wooden shelves. Low and long tables. Maps on the walls. Books within reach. A Montessori-inspired room where the boys can move, build, read, explore. Where learning feels tactile and alive.

It feels hopeful.

It feels steady.

It feels like the right next step.