My mom started her business when I was a toddler — over 30 years ago. I was by her side as she built it from the ground up. I still remember putting two of her office chairs together as a makeshift bed so I could nap to the sound of dot-matrix printers running and calculator buttons clicking.
She worked long days and even longer nights. Through all the obstacles, her persistence was dedicated to one purpose: providing a better education for her children.
I carried that dream forward, studied to earn my bachelor’s degree, and made her proud. But when I decided to homeschool my own daughter, my mother didn’t support me — at first.
My mother didn’t understand homeschooling
When I became a mom, I felt drawn to explore homeschooling for the freedom and flexibility it offered. I loved the option of tailoring my daughter’s education to her natural strengths and allowing her to learn through real-life experiences, rather than just relying on textbooks. As we geared up for kindergarten at home, I wasn’t in a hurry to follow any formula or rigid structure. I gave her space to spark curiosity and ease into learning.
The news didn’t land too well with my mom. She was used to the public school system being the standard. Flexibility seemed like an unnecessary risk.
When I was growing up in the ’90s, there was a stigma about homeschooled kids being weird, unfriendly, and unable to adapt to society. My mom feared the same fate for my outgoing and bright five-year-old.
Still, I began introducing academic concepts all summer, often while my mom was nearby in the kitchen. She slowly realized it wasn’t as outlandish as she had imagined.
I tried a mix of methods. Some days, my daughter learned through self-paced online classes; other days, I turned daily tasks like cooking and organizing into teaching opportunities.
Before I knew it, my mom started making her way closer to the dinner table to sit in on the lessons.
A few weeks in, she volunteered to take over some lessons in reading, spelling, and math.
My mom soon became the second teacher for my daughter
One day, I walked in to find my mom had organized a spread of learning materials on the dinner table: phonics flashcards, a whiteboard, pencils, and animal cookies.
I got to sit back and relive the days when my mom taught me to read, which opened my mind to the wonder of creativity and learning. I attribute my curiosity to those times we read books like “Are You My Mother?” in bed, until I was able to read it to her.
Now, decades later, the three of us sit at the table together. I realize what a privilege it is. My mom, on one side, is reviving silly parts of herself that had been buried under the demands of responsibility. My daughter, on the other side, is eagerly clapping to syllables, sounding out new words she sees, and dancing with each sentence she reads. Together, we get to revisit memories and create new ones.
Homeschooling became the thread that connected three generations
Homeschooling has given my daughter and me the chance to hear stories from my mom’s childhood in the 1950s in South Texas. The reward is tenfold; we relive those moments with her as she remembers the impact her teachers had on her life. We giggle through her stories of learning.
Having my mom help me on our homeschool journey has been an unexpected blessing. We tag-team on the days my schedule is full, and my daughter gets to benefit from different teaching styles.
My choice to homeschool bridged the strong work ethic and values of the past with today’s modern approach to learning.
What began as clashing ideals has turned into a family bonding experience. My mom gets to pass on her love of learning to my daughter, and I get to watch her hard work come full circle, one phonics lesson and animal cookie at a time.
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