I meant to post about homeschooling pirates yesterday, but just got too busy. That’ll have to wait til tomorrow I guess.

I posted earlier this week that my son has been accepted to Jump School. I’ll post more on the process of getting into the military after homeschooling over the weekend.

My boys–and their innate sense of adventure inspired my column this week.

Boys–strange and different creatures

My eldest son called recently to say that he had been accepted into Army jump school. Some time later this month, Edward will head off for the opportunity of a lifetime — the chance to learn how to jump out of perfectly good airplanes. For this news, he called his father. They have already had long talks about proper shirt-folding technique and the rigors of basic training. I am out of the loop when it comes to these conversations.

Ed was the child who used to shoot off model rockets in the front yard and fly remote-control airplanes. Those aerial pursuits weren’t enough, though. He set his sights on the Army.

Yes, the Army takes recruits who have been homeschooled. The process is a little different, but in the end, boot camp is boot camp. Or so I hear. Call your local recruiter for details.

A friend asked if I am worried about my son now that he wants to jump out of airplanes. It isn’t like this is the first time he has wanted to do something dangerous, I reminded her. Still, what mother doesn’t worry a little bit? I am content, though, that my son is doing what I raised him to do — he is pursuing his dreams. He would be miserable studying to wear a suit and sit behind a desk. He craves adventure and noise and movement, and he is getting a stiff dose of each.

Boys are strange and different creatures in my estimation. They take chances. They put things into the washer, via their pockets, that girls would not even think of picking up. Boys are creative in their own ways. My older boys used to build forts, turning the backyard into a child-sized shantytown. They used leftover building materials and scrounged up nails. Those forts were manly survivalist enclaves until their sisters moved in.

The girls brought carpet scraps and started hanging curtains. The boys moved out and tried to find places so uncivilized that the girls would leave them alone. They climbed trees and dug holes. It worked, to a degree.

My youngest son is showing a certain bent toward adventure, eagerly following in the footsteps of three older brothers. At 15 months, Atticus believes he can keep up with the big boys. A few days ago, I watched as he played in the tub. He thought it was great fun to stand on one foot, lean back so he was completely off balance and then stomp the other foot down to make a great splash. My son was completely disappointed in my skills as a mother when he realized I was removing him from the bath and further temptation.

He cried. He sobbed. He screamed and flailed. I held firm for a while but then decided to give him a second chance. Atticus was delighted. Of course, you know already that he went right back to balancing and splashing. I took him out again, this time for good. For that moment, it was in my power to keep him safe, and I vowed to do just that, even though it made him unhappy.

As we battled it out, I remembered that one day I must let go of this one, too. He may well want to jump out of perfectly good airplanes, or he may find something equally startling to the heart of a mother. I think Atticus sensed my thoughts because he calmed down, perhaps plotting to become an astronaut or run with the bulls in Pamplona one day.

He will probably call his father with the news.