planning the year
A Year We Can Actually Live Inside
This year, before the actual homeschooling begins, I’ve been deep in the quiet, paper-stacked season of planning.
The buying, printing, binding, sorting, comparing, second-guessing, and slowly trying to pull an entire year into something tangible. There are books arriving, pages being printed, piles forming, tabs multiplying, and a new printer now living in our house because apparently the vision I have for this homeschool year requires industrial levels of paper.
I don’t plan because I want our days to feel rigid. I plan because without some kind of structure, everything starts to blur. With four kids in four very different stages of learning, I need a place to hold the shape of the year before we are standing in the middle of it. I need to see the whole thing at once: who needs me, who can work independently, what subjects can overlap, what days are already full, and where we need breathing room.
The plan for this year is built around a six-weeks-on, one-week-off rhythm as much as possible, with Wednesdays set aside for enrichment classes rather than home lessons. That means our at-home school week will mostly live inside Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday, with Friday giving us room for anything that needs a little more time. I’m trying to build something structured enough to keep us moving, but gentle enough to bend when life inevitably asks it to.
A lot of this year is about making things feel less scattered. Instead of trying to hold every subject, every child, and every pacing guide separately in my head, I’m putting it all in one place first. From there, I can copy things into my SchoolNest planner and elaborate week by week without having to recreate the entire map every Sunday night. The goal is not perfection. The goal is a rhythm we can return to.
Our school room is becoming part classroom, part art studio, part creative refuge. There’s a big table ready for markers, brushes, pencils, pens, glue, scissors, and whatever project inevitably takes over the surface for days at a time. The art closet is full of paint in nearly every medium, clay, scraps, odds and ends, and all the little materials that make ideas feel possible. I want more of that this year — more making, more color, more hands covered in paint, more projects that let them create instead of only complete. I want art to become part of the atmosphere of our days, not something we save for when everything else is done.
For Landon, this year marks the beginning of high school, which feels both surreal and exciting. His year will be a mix of at-home academics and enrichment classes. He’ll be taking Geometry, Biology, English I, HTML/Web Development, Woodworking, and Advanced Cooking and Baking through enrichment. At home, we’ll continue building out Spanish, modern history, reading, discussion, and the kind of real-world skills that matter just as much as anything on a transcript. There will also be room for robotics, Scouts, creative projects, and the slow work of becoming more independent without pretending executive functioning magically appears at fourteen. For him, I’m trying to build a year that supports growth, responsibility, and confidence, while still honoring the fact that he is a whole person, not just a list of credits.
For Paxton, seventh grade feels like a bridge year: more independence, more responsibility, but still with plenty of support. I’m still teetering between Pre-Algebra and RightStart Level G, trying to decide which path will serve him best without rushing him into something simply because it looks better on paper. He’ll also be joining in on Biology and modern history, while continuing to build writing, grammar, reading, and language arts skills. Through enrichment, he’ll have Woodworking, Advanced Cooking and Baking, English, and Theatre Tech, giving him space to work with his hands, create, learn practical skills, and experience the behind-the-scenes magic of bringing something to life. I want his year to feel steady and confidence-building, not pressured or frantic. He is creative and thoughtful, and I want to protect that part of him while also helping him strengthen the skills that make learning feel less frustrating.
For Aspen, fifth grade will hold a lot of growth, creativity, and beauty. She’ll continue with math, language arts, writing, grammar, history, and family science work, with plenty of room for reading, animals, nature, and art. Through enrichment, she’ll be taking Fashion Design, Musical Theatre, Kitchen Science, and Wilderness Survival, unless she gets off the waitlist for Change Makers. It feels like such a perfect mix for her — creative, expressive, practical, and full of room to explore the things she loves. She is organized and tender-hearted, and I want her year to feel both dependable and alive. Not overly complicated, not buried under too many moving parts, but rich enough to keep her curious.
For Fox, second grade is still about keeping learning warm, joyful, foundational, and full of magic. Reading, spelling, math, handwriting, stories, nature, art, and simple rhythms will be at the center, but I also want his year to feel enchanted. More fairy tales. More seasonal projects. More nature treasures. More little experiments. More drawing and making and imagining. More moments where learning feels like opening a tiny hidden door. Through enrichment, he’ll be taking Clay & Ceramic Studio, Writer’s Workshop, World Geography & Cultures, Change Makers, and Run Club, which feels like such a wonderful blend of creativity, movement, storytelling, and exploring the wider world. I want to make sure he doesn’t get lost in the shuffle of older kids with heavier subjects and high school credits. He deserves the same wonder, attention, and delight that the others had when they were little — maybe even more, because I know now how quickly these years go.
More than anything, I’m trying to plan a year that feels honest.
Not a fantasy version of homeschool where everyone cheerfully gathers around the table while birds sing outside the window and no one cries over math. Not a schedule so packed that it looks impressive on paper but collapses by October. I want something real. Something with margin. Something that accounts for hard days, slow mornings, big feelings, deep dives, appointments, beautiful weather, rabbit trails, art projects, and the fact that we are a family before we are a school.
This year, I’m planning with more humility. I know now that the best homeschool plan is not the one that looks the most ambitious. It’s the one we can actually live inside.
So I’m building the scaffolding. Printing the pages. Binding the books. Gathering the pieces. Stocking the art closet. Making room at the table. Trying to create a year that is structured but not suffocating, rigorous but not joyless, intentional but still full of wonder.
And hopefully, once the planning season gives way to the learning season, we’ll have something sturdy enough to hold us and soft enough to let us breathe.