I Thought I Was Raising My Children

When I became a parent, I quietly assumed that most of my children's learning would come from me.

I would teach them to read.

To apologize.

To tell the truth.

To work hard.

To be kind.

If I paid enough attention, chose the right schools, read the right books, and loved them well enough, surely I could shape who they became. I don't think I realized how many other teachers were waiting for them.

Some of the most important lessons in our home have never come from me. They've come from chickens. From watching a praying mantis sit perfectly still for nearly an hour. From watching dad feed the animals outside as the sun came up before school. From waiting quietly enough that a butterfly decided our hands were safe to land on.

They've come from collecting eggs on cold mornings when no one felt like going outside. From watching sunflower seedlings struggle toward the light. From helping a frightened animal learn to trust us. From saying goodbye when an animal died despite doing everything we knew how to do.

The natural world has been teaching my children long before I ever realized it was teaching me too. It teaches patience, because nothing meaningful in nature happens on our schedule. It teaches discipline, because the animals still need to be fed on the mornings and evenings we're tired or distracted or running late. It teaches creativity, because sticks become fishing poles, fallen logs become pirate ships, and muddy pit beds become entire imaginary worlds before lunch. It teaches empathy, because you cannot care for another living thing very long without learning to notice subtle changes. You begin to recognize hunger before the animal cries. Fear before it runs. Curiosity before it comes closer.

You learn to observe before you act.

That may be one of the greatest lessons nature has ever offered us. Our children don't only need adults who speak. They need places that quietly teach. I think that's one of the reasons our farm has become such an important part of Khai and Silas' world. The natural world has never asked Khai to make eye contact. It has never rushed Silas' timing. It has never cared whether they communicate differently. The creek down by the road doesn't ask them to explain themselves. The chickens don't wonder why Khai stims on the fence or bushes. The trees don't expect Silas to sit still. Nature simply allows them to belong.

And because it asks so little of them, it somehow teaches them so much.

I've watched our boys spend thirty minutes studying the way sunlight moves across a spider web. I've watched them notice tiny insects I would have walked right past. I've watched them become calmer simply because the world around them wasn't demanding anything in return.

The older my boys become, the less I believe children are raised only by parents.

They're raised by stories.

By places.

By communities.

By hardship.

By joy.

By the adults who choose to notice them.

And by a thousand quiet teachers we rarely think to thank.

Sometimes I wonder if we've made childhood harder than it needs to be by believing every lesson has to come from an adult standing at the front of the room. Some of the most important things my children have ever learned have come from kneeling in the dirt, watching something grow. The remarkable thing is that I think the same is true for me.

I used to believe I was responsible for teaching my children everything they needed to know.

Now I think my job is much smaller—and much more beautiful.

My job is simply to make sure they spend enough time with good teachers.

Some of those teachers live in our house.

Many of them never speak at all.