There’s a family of three red-headed boys, roughly ages 6-10, who live on the corner about a block down the street. They can frequently be seen in the front yard of their red-brick ranch house, horsing around, brandishing swords, playing in the mud, sometimes in various states of undress, often at odd hours of the schoolday. Jason and I have surmised that they are home-schooled, and they are making it look like a lot of fun.

The notion of homeschooling is thrilling to me: the idea that parents wouldn’t need an institution, or a professional, or some kind of overseer to make sure the learning is right. While it’s clear the learning is not patently right in our current system, I shiver a little at the idea of doing it on my own. The parents of those red-headed boys are brave and strange.

Yesterday I ran past the red-head house during my “lunch break” at 2 p.m., the break I allowed myself after a day in the home office and inside my own head. The dad was standing in front of the oldest boy with a tackle dummy, and the boy, in full pads and jersey, was doing football drills. I couldn’t help but think, “It’s just so weird. Shouldn’t he be in school? Doesn’t he need a team?”

And then I realized, shouldn’t I be in school? I am doing the professional equivalent of homeschooling. No institution, no overseer, no team, just me. Alongside the other brave, strange people who do their own thing during school hours.

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