The sky begins to lighten, though the sun has not yet breached the horizon. I look out the window toward the chicken coop, wonder how much they care about having their coop opened up when there’s still snow on the ground, think about sinking back into the comforter and enjoying the warmth.

Mattias is standing in his playpen, watching me. When I look at him, he smiles and begins to bounce. I pick him up and he kicks his legs in excitement.

Of course you can come, Big Guy. You like helping mommy with the chickens, don’t you?

He squeals in delight as I dress him. I could be finished with the chicken chores by the time he is ready to go out.

In comes Elianna, sleep still in her eyes as she inquires,

Mommy? I tum, too?

Of course you can come, sweetheart.

I could be finished with the chicken chores by the time she is ready to go out.
Finally, we are at the door, putting on shoes. The sky is considerably lighter as I hear Nisa shout from her bed.

Wait for me!

She calls, and we wait. She’s ready quick enough, but we can’t find her shoes. I could be finished twice more by the time we find them.

The morning air is chilly, the children silent. We make our way to the coop. Hunter trots in front, sometimes sniffing, sometimes barking. He knows where we are heading and he scouts the path, following scents along either side of the path, circling the coop twice, letting me know all is safe by sitting on the step by the coop door.

I put the baby in a toy car and hesitate for a moment. The great old tree in our field almost looks like it has been set on fire by the sunrise, and the whole property seems to glow in the morning light. The children are standing by the fence, looking at a puddle and waiting for the chickens to come out. Hunter is just waiting to see what we do next.

I go in, greeted by four chickens who think the best way to be fed is to dart under my feet while I walk. I move the concrete block guarding their door to the run. The chickens, realizing I don’t have food, walk down their ramp to enjoy the morning air.

My daughters squeal their good mornings. “Chickalee! Chickalee!” calls the two year old, excitedly. “Good morning, Dora!” shouts Nisa. The chickens run to the fence, peering at the children, wondering if maybe they brought the food. We stand, and we watch. There is a peculiar joy in caring for animals.

I wait until their interest wanes before we make it back to the house to start breakfast. Of course, we could be finished eating, if only the children hadn’t come along.

But this is what education is. A simple walk, an invitation to come along side, to join in my day. Some parts are formal, as I give assignments, correct mistakes and write new concepts on the marker board.

But the real lessons, the ones that mold who my children will one day become, those lessons occur in the simple tasks of the every day. They cannot be written into a lesson plan, nor measured with a quiz.

And ye shall teach them your children, talking of them, when thou sittest in thy house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou risest up. –Deuteronomy 11:19

It is an easy enough concept for me to remember in the morning, before we have anywhere to be or anything to do. But as the day progresses and the schedule tightens, my priorities shift. My goal becomes completion rather than education. I want the meal cooked, the lessons finished, the house cleaned. The more stressed I am, the more the children are in the way.

Because I forget that this is exactly where I put them. Not “in the way” exactly. More “along the way,” where they can watch, and learn and grow.

Dana is homeschooling her five children while moving to the country. You can follow her plans and adventures while seeking to live life more abundantly at Roscommon Acres.