Last night I had an “It’s a Wonderful Life” kind of experience. You know that old James Stewart movie in which the main character gets a look at what life would be like without him?  Sitting with my son as he eagerly wrote a letter to a friend, I found myself “flashing sideways” to what his life would have been like if unschooling hadn’t found us.  Here’s the scene:

Thomas perches on his desk chair.  His body is precariously balanced on one knee and two elbows as he swivels the chair back and forth.

A red flag, I think in my flash sideways.  Kids with ADD may sit in strangely contorted ways in order to keep focused. I envision a morning dose of meds, perhaps a trip to the school nurse after lunch for another dose to get him through the afternoon…

He figures out the first thing he wants to say.  About three letters into the first word, he stops and asks a seemingly unrelated question.  I have no idea the stream of thought that led to this, but I answer his question and we have a short discussion about the topic.

Clearly attention issues.  I see a special ed. teacher working with him in class.  “Okay, back to the letter,” she prompts.  “Do you remember the word you were writing?”  Thomas refocuses on the word, although he’s still thinking about his question…

“What next?” he asks himself, needing no prompting from me.  “Oh, right.”  He continues writing his word.  His friend’s letter, the one to which he is responding, is very neatly written.  Thomas wants his letter to be neat as well.  He checks with me often about whether a word should be capitalized, whether his spacing is adequate.

Whatever the writing assignment is, it hasn’t inspired my son.  He finds his own thoughts far more interesting. Each time he tries to engage the teacher in a conversation she refocuses him on the task at hand.  She’s looking at the clock, slightly stressed about the fact that he’s only got one sentence written and PE is coming up in 10 minutes.  “Let’s get back to work!” she repeats…

About every minute, Thomas stops and asks a question, makes an observation, gets up and wiggles around; you name it, he’s doing it. I go with it, answering questions (whether or not they’re about his letter), responding to his comments. I feel free to get comfortable too, sprawling on his his rug, my head propped up on his tiny couch.  As Thomas writes, I notice the tell-tale lefty pencil grip; the one where the ring finger is not tucked neatly away, but helps support his pencil.  Some of his letters appear more “drawn” than written, and he almost never starts a letter at the conventional place.  I think how the conventional way to form letters doesn’t make much sense from a lefty’s perspective.  If I were writing lefty, Thomas’s way would probably feel more intuitive.

In an attempt to help him sit properly, the teacher has placed a step stool beneath his chair.  She instructs Thomas to place his feet flat on it and straighten his back. She maneuvers his fingers into place around a rubber pencil grip. Just above his paper is a letter strip which shows the proper way to form each letter with little arrows…

After an enjoyable 20 minutes of writing and chatting, Thomas has produced two sentences.  Very optimistic, he draws a line about three quarters of the way down the page.  “When my letter is that long, I’ll send it, ” he decides.  He also decides to put it away for now.  Off he goes to listen something on his cd player.

With 3 minutes to spare before PE, the teacher tucks the assignment into an “Unfinished Work” folder.  “Let’s finish this during free-reading time, ” she suggests.  Free reading is a great time to catch Thomas up when he’s  fallen behind. They use it that way a lot…

The next evening before bed, Thomas pulls out his letter.  “I’m determined to finish this tonight, Mommy!” he sings out.  We settle down, me on the rug again, Thomas on his swivel chair using a rickety end table as a desk. He writes, we chat.  Something he heard at play rehearsal comes up again and again, until finally he giggles, “Boy, Mommy, that really tickles my fancy!”  We burst out laughing.  I can see he needs to use the bathroom, but he’s too into his writing to take a bathroom break.  I have to promise him he can come right back and keep writing.  He zips off, has finished, flushed, and washed his hands in record time.  “I’m back!” he announces, and we continue.

Thomas is fatigued after the writing assignment. His hand and body are uncomfortable from the way the teacher had him sit and hold the pencil. The thoughts he didn’t get to pursue are still swirling around in his head making him feel sort of  fuzzy.  “Can I go to the bathroom?” he asks, not because he really has to go, but because he needs to retreat, regroup.  “Sure,” the teacher replies, “but make it quick. PE is coming right up, and we don’t want to be late!”  She knows she’s going to have to coax him out after about 5 minutes, and even then it will be slow going to pack up, get PE clothes and walk to the gym.  He’ll be late again, but at least it’s not an academic subject he’s missing…

After half an hour, Thomas shows no sign of slowing down.  I’m the one getting tired, and I ask him if he is ready to wind it up.  We agree on another few minutes. Fifteen minutes later, Thomas decides he’s got so much to say he’d better break it up into two letters.  He finishes his last sentence (“Happy Thanksgiving!), signs his name with a flourish (it’s not quite cursive, but he’s aiming for that effect), and triumphantly dances his way over to me.  We marvel for a moment at this accomplishment, speculate on how excited his friend will be to read it, wonder when to start checking our own mailbox expectantly for a reply.  I tuck him into bed and linger over him for a moment, watching him gently rub his lovey puppy’s soft blue ear.  I can’t be sure, but I think I see his lips forming the first words of his next epistle.

As my flash sideways scenes slowly fade, I feel a rush of gratitude for this life we have, for the suffering and frustration we’ve avoided – narrowly escaped, really.  I celebrate the joy I saw tonight on my little boy’s face, the laughter we shared, the moments of truly authentic collaboration.

Jimmy Stewart’s got nothing on us.