I’m yanking my kids.

Yes, after being that parent—you know, the one who helped with the PTA and volunteered in classrooms, the one who made sure her kids were as well adjusted in school as possible, and who read with bated breath every report card comment and district newsletter—something hit me like a 2’x4′.

What was it?

Was it seasonal affective disorder?  In the Pacific Northwest, that’s no laughing matter.

Or was it the steadily increasing stream of my kid’s take-home paperwork that looked for all the world like state proficiency testing?

Or was it my kid himself, who appeared stressed and weary from being made to feel scared of not “achieving?”

Something sure as hell happened.  I don’t know.

Maybe it was the art class we started to take as a family.  We drew birds.  We sat together, each focusing on our great big pad, sketching beaks and bodies and claws with pencil, then charcoal.  Afterward, my son did not seem anguished like he was right after his school day, setting down his backpack and taking out those test prep sheets.

After two hours of studio art together, we all felt great.  And I wondered this:  For years now in our district, elementary art has effectively been cut.  Why IS that?

Why is the ability to draw life from the eye any less important for a nine-year-old child than the ability to multiply 12 by 11?

I bet Alfred Hitchcock went to a school that let him draw big birds as a kid.

Kidding.

It started to dawn on me:  I could have my kids just go to this private art school twice a week.  And swim at the center a few times, since they love to swim.  And maybe take some time during the day to learn all those musical instruments we have no time for.  All of their hitherto “extracurricular” activities could become the new curriculum.

If there weren’t that long school day with all that boring homework, I’d even take them places to learn about how businesses run.  I’d take them into the community and have them meet people who do all kinds of different jobs.  I’d have my kids interview them. Take them for a coffee or a bite to eat, and ask about why they like doing what they do.

I’d take them out of the city and to more spread-out places.  Farms.  Mines. Transportation hubs.  I’d help them to see how things get from A to B.

I’d let them tell me what they’re really interested in.  They always ask about giant squids: “Mom, if there were a giant squid versus the Titanic, who would win?”

“Um…sorry to disappoint you, but back in 1912—”

“If there were a blue whale against a giant squid, who would win?”

“Is that what you want to know?”

“Yeah.  We really want to know.”

“Well, then.  Let’s find a way to find out.”

My friend asks, “Do you think you can homeschool?”

I’ll do my very best.

None of us is dumb.

Why were we ever made to feel that we are?