That special time again...

I didn’t have enough to do, what with mailing and stamping and sticking and lugging and mailing some more. I had to go online and tippity-tap my way through some oh-so-serious paperwork, because it’s between October 1 and October 15 and that’s when indie California homeschoolers have to make it official.

On paper, the California laws regarding homeschooling can seem a little daunting. I remember the year I realized that, yes indeedy, we'd be official legal homeschoolers when the time came. And then I saw that, in order to proceed as the sturdily independent family we'd quietly become, we'd have to legally establish a private school.

"We're moving," I said.

Which is ridiculous. We're not going anywhere. Quite aside from the fact that we're utterly broke, the number of books we own has by now hit critical mass -- they'll still fit in our apartment, but we'll break crucial laws of physics if we ever try to pack them. Plus we've never lived anywhere but the mildest corners of southern California, so if we moved anywhere that has what I believe is called "winter," we'd all perish instantly.

But The Man was hitting me in my weakest spot. I'm the rare homeschooler who has never doubted her ability to teach her own child. However, I have a mortal terror of bureaucracy and paperwork. And in California, most of the legal side of establishing a private school is red tape.

You have to keep some very silly records. In California, private school instructors aren't legally required to have to have teaching degrees, or any degrees at all. (If that sounds horrifying, I'll freely confess that I don't even have a high school diploma. I got out of school by passing a test so lame, they cancelled it a year or two after I took it. I'm sure that was just a coincidence. My point is, academic qualifications can be wonderful, but they're not in and of themselves any indication of intelligence or ability.) Instead, they -- we -- must simply be "capable of teaching." So independent homeschoolers in California have to take a few minutes a year to type up a statement with our name, address, and a few sentences detailing how fabulous we are, and why. The hardest part of this is keeping a straight face, at least for me. "You want 'capable'? I got your capable right here!" I'm not sure what that means. I still find it funny.

We also have to keep a list of courses offered at our "schools." Like the fabulous teacher statement, this paper will never see the light of day, since pretty much no one is allowed to see it no matter how hard they beg. But we're legally required to dutifully type up the fact that we're offering our wee ones courses in English, Math, Social Sciences, Science, Fine Arts, Health, and Physical Education. (Or, as we call it at our place: Talking, Agonized Groaning, Peoplewatching, Setting Things On Fire In An Educational Manner, Pretty Stuff, Trying Not To Catch Scurvy Before Breakfast, and Running Around Like The Adorable Maniacs We Are.)

Then there's the letter listing the names of our children and stating that, yea verily, they "attend" the school we have established. Which brings us to the toughest part of setting up a private school in California: thinking of a name. You have to. They make you. If you don't, the computer will scream and spit out your application when you try to make your little California home school kosher.

Here are a few things I've learned about this after several years at it:

1. Don't pick anything too goofy. Seriously. Whether your child ends his academic career with you by applying to college or striking out directly into the work force, he really doesn't want to have to publicly admit that he's an alumnus of The Hearts and Rainbows Academy of Learning to Love and Share. And this is going to be, quite literally, down on his permanent record. No matter how mean he is to you some days, don't do this to him.

1a. If your child is under the age of about forty, don't let him or her play more than the most nominal part in the naming process. If I have to explain this one, you're probably letting your eight-year-old pick matching tattoos for himself and you. My eleven-year-old son is already bitter about the fact that for one year, he was a student at the Grasshopper Day School. But dang it, he wanted "grasshopper" in the name. We used to call him Dancing With Grasshoppers. He just attracted them, which is hard to do in the middle of the city but he managed it. I still don't know how. Before we reproduced, my husband and I never saw a single grasshopper. Then our son came along, and all of a sudden the same darned apartment complex was jumping with the weird little creatures. For years, every morning we'd open the door and see a huge grasshopper clinging to the screen. It was as if we'd been targeted by the least intimidating arm of the Mob ever. ("Say hello to my little green friend!") So of course our son begged us to name our school after them. (The grasshoppers, not the Mob.) My husband suggested that the Latin word for grasshopper might lend our school a shade of dignity; but it turned out to be "orthoptera," which sounds way too much to me as if we're manufacturing artificial kneecaps. So I caved, and my son spent the first grade in Grasshopper Day School, and now he thinks I was trying to get back at him for something. Learn from me. Invest in some earplugs and heartlessly ignore all pleas for the cute and the trendy.

2. Keep any humor subtle to the point of near-invisibility. I really don't think the state will send its minions after you if you file paperwork to establish the It's A Homeschool Damn It private academy of learning; but then again I'm not sure I'd blame them if they did. On the other hand, I have nothing but the deepest admiration for the family that named their school after the trees that grow so plentifully in their neighborhood. Their children attend Sycamore School. (Say it out loud. Say it with a slight southern drawl. Get it? Call me if you don't get it.)

3. Ruthlessly suppress any urge toward whimsy. One state can only support so many Jedi Academies, and I swear I'm going to urge J.K. Rowling to sue if I hear about one more Hogwarts Homeschool. It may seem adorable now, but remember who has to live happily ever after with this school name on her record.

So what do you call yourself?

I'm sorry to have to say that I've already claimed the Best Name Ever for a school, home or other. I'm lucky enough to be an admirer of Robert Ingersoll, a late nineteenth-century writer and lecturer I've mentioned a time or two on this blog. Not only is the man awesome in every possible respect -- intellectually rigorous yet lovably hotheaded (he once broke a chair over a man's head because the man made a racist statement) -- but he has an eminently suitable monicker. It's dignified to the point of stuffiness, and just a bit obscure. So I'm proud that my son is a student at Ingersoll Academy.

There are plenty of cool writers, artists, and philosophers out there who are in no position to argue with your naming a school after them, seeing as how they're dead and all. You shouldn't spend months sweating this one out -- it is just a name, after all, and you can change it next year if you want to. But there is a certain feeling of peace and satisfaction attendant on knowing that your school has a name deeply resonant with your family's philosophy.

Unless that name is The Temple of Sith, as my husband keeps requesting. In which case, please fake it until you can make it, so far as being a full-fledged grownup is concerned.

But getting back to filing as a private school in California.

Happily, both of our statewide support organizations, California Homeschool Network (CHN) and the HomeSchool Association of California (HSC) have detailed instructions for filing a private school affidavit (PSA) on their web sites. This information is available free of charge and is an utter lifesaver to wimps like me.

Although you don't have to be a completely and total paperwork pansy to be a little puzzled by the PSA, at least your first time through. Some of the answers you should give are counterintuitive. You should NOT, for instance, sign yourself up as a boarding school. Really. By any reasonably realistic definition, you are one; legally, you're not, and you really don't want to go there because all of a sudden you'll have county health inspectors poking around in your kitchen and seeing all the unintentional science experiments your refrigerator contains.

Likewise, the application asks for the ages of your students, and mentions that the youngest should be no younger than four years and nine months. But you shouldn't be registering your kindergarten-aged child on this form, no matter what this statement seems to imply. Kindergarten is not legally required in California, so why even bring it up; plus they keep messing with us regarding how old a student has to be to put us in the position of legally running a day care rather than a school per se, and hey, look! Inspectors in the kitchen!

A friend of mine pointed out that the form is easier to fill out this year -- it's more streamlined, and there are actually less questions. I tend to block out horrifying memories such as myself complying with government paperwork, so I can't say how it compares. I do know that there are a LOT more scary pop-up boxes this year than ever before.

The very first question is completely new. You have to assert that, honest and for true, you are a private FULL-TIME school. Which throws some of us into a deep philosophical tizzy. Full-time by whose standards? Sure, we're learning all the time, just like that cute little picture book says; but in terms of actually sitting down with academic stuff -- that is what they mean by "school," isn't it? But do I really care what the government thinks? But this is a government form, and unless I want creepy government types coming through here, I have to fill it out "right," right?

So after a few hours of this, we click on "yes," to signify that, forsooth, we are a full-time school so far as legal definitions are concerned. We're gritting our teeth and ready to finish the rest of the danged form, already. Instead, a big box pops up on the screen, demanding to know if you're SURE that's what you really meant to say. Really. Really really. Really really sure. Sure? Sure? Are you are you huh?

I don't know why this is such a big issue for the CDE this year. I can't imagine anyone taking time out of their lives to bother filling out this silly form if they offer art classes in their living room once a week. But I guess some people just love every kind of questionnaire they can get their hands on.

The rest of the form isn't so bad. I guess I ought to be more of a paranoid anti-government freak, but I just don't care if some desk jockey has my home address. I live in a security building along with my screaming redhead temper, cute but scary-looking lizard, and big hairy Sicilian guy. Anyone who wants to come by and give me a hard time in person is more than welcome, especially on those days when I'm looking for a really good excuse to blow my top. Which is pretty much every day these days, between the death-panel idiots and the we-love-Roman-Polanski perverts. In fact, I'd like to throw out an open invitation right now to anyone who wants to stop by and ask insolent personal questions about how I educate my child. Please. Hurry. I need to break something.

But getting back to filing the PSA. Some of the questions aren't difficult per se. They're just kind of goofy. You are asked to tell the gov whether you're running a coeducational school or if it's a gender-specific institution. I only have one child. You'd think this would be a gimme. It isn't. I'm a feisty lower-case f feminist, and I absolutely refuse to be on the record as Head Honcho of a Boys Only School. Sorry, but that's just creepy to me. My son's school may be exclusive in one sense, that sense being that you have to have seen my uterus from the inside in order to gain admission; but technically it's open to members of all genders.

The other day my son and I were with a homeschooler who's a little "schoolier" than we are. The next morning he was full of anxious questions as to whether or not he knows "everything that a sixth-grader ought to," in his words. "Of course not," I reassured him. "You know something much more important. You know how to learn. I've told you before -- you're a person, not a grade. Now go and rinse your cereal bowl before I send you to the principal's office."

I was glad to be reminded this year that my son is truly and in every sense not a sixth grader, or an anything grader. California has an option on the PSA that I'd forgotten. You can mark off how many students are in each grade, or you can tally up "ungraded elementary" and "ungraded secondary" students. I'm not sure that being one of the former is everything my son has ever hoped and dreamed of. But it's going to be a lot of fun to answer the next person who asks him what grade he's in. "Un," we can say.

A lot of people on the California-specific homeschooling loops I'm on have been seating about what to say on the "administrative staff" section. You have to fill in the name of a "Site Administrator" and a "Director or Principal Officer." These can be the same person. I really don't know why that was a sticking point. Yes, it's sad that whoever has to file our paperwork at whatever office handles this kind of thing is going to be bored silly seeing my PSA, which lists my cute little name for both those positions as well as for Custodian of Records. But at least whoever-it-is is getting paid. I had to yawn my way through this form for free.

Some people worry that this is the sort of information that will make their form "stick out" as a homeschool. I think that anyone who's bothering to look that closely is going to be tipped off to that by the fact that all the homeschooling PSAs only have as many students as one woman's womb could have reasonably processed. I also think that given how many of us there are in California, we should quit worrying. They've messed with us before. We hit back. They learned their lesson. If they didn't, ducking and hiding isn't the answer. That's the lesson we need to learn if we haven't already.

This form may be more streamlined, as my friend claims; but there are about a million more little boxes to check "okay" in than there have been in years past. It's just a bunch of really really boring stuff that only a bureaucrat could love. Three of the statements we're supposed to agree to before we can go back to our so-called normal lives say the same thing, almost word for word. I think they're just trying to see if we're still awake. Next year, I bet all these statements aren't even going to be in English. Or Spanish. Or any language anyone could recognize. They're going to make us sign off to a statement in ancient Sumerian to the effect that in seven years' time, we swear to send our firstborn off to fight the universal oversoul in single combat in defense of the great mother goddess Fleeba. Or maybe they'll slip something in about how, by submitting this form, we're agreeing to become Dominican nuns. Maybe we should have only male parents file PSAs next year, just in case.

So it's all very silly -- but it's really not so terrifying. Which, coming from a confirmed technophobe-bureaucracyphobe like me, is saying a lot. It bugs me when people who don't live here talk about how awful it must be to homeschool in California. The thing is, after you file this silly form, you're free. No tests. No inspections. No "here's all the stuff we did this year" piles of worksheets, unless you're inclined to pile that kind of thing up.

Plus, you can print out extras of the form and haul them into Borders or Barnes and Noble and dare them to question your right to an educator's discount. You don't even have to mention the word "homeschool." Or you can, just to gloat. I enjoy that kind of thing, myself. But that's just me.