Breathless, I inserted the tampon hastily, got dressed and shut myself in the bedroom. I sat for a long time on the bed, one hand over my mouth. I never wanted to come out. After that, I never again used the bathroom without locking the door, even to brush my teeth.
Another time, I woke up in the middle of the night and found them standing at the foot of the bed. They observed me wordlessly. I blinked a few times and tried to compose my thoughts. I should have asked them if something was wrong, if they’d had a nightmare or if they were sick, but I couldn’t put the words together. I lay there naked, unable to pull myself from the bed. I could only look from one to the other. How long the scene lasted, I don’t know. They finally went back to their room and I lay there, wondering if I’d dreamt it.
I never told Gregory about these incidents. I felt embarrassed and questioned whether I had somehow unknowingly provoked the situations. Had I not been modest enough? Had I not established limits? Guilt gnawed away at me and I didn’t know what to feel guilty about. So I kept these shameful episodes a secret. The last thing I wanted to do was limit their curiosity.
To channel the boys’ energy, our schedule had become firm and structured: we had breakfast together, then, when Gregory left for work, I cleaned the kitchen while the boys dressed themselves. After that, we started our lessons. We worked four subjects for forty-five minutes every day. From 9:00 to 9:45, for example, we did math. At five years old, the boys could already add and subtract, as well as solve simple problems. From 9:45 to 10:30, we did French; they were gradually learning to read and write, with a focus on encyclopedic texts rather than fiction, which didn’t interest them at all. Then they had a break. I let them play for thirty minutes, or we would go for a walk outside. From 11:00 to 11:45 we would start back up with science; we looked at insects or soil through a magnifying glass, studied the reaction of vinegar with baking soda, or chose an animal to research. Finally, from 11:45 to 12:30 we did what I liked to call philosophy; this was where we got to talk about emotions, people, the environment, religion… Following that, they got another play period while I prepared lunch, and then we went on an outing. The days were full, but this system worked well. I wouldn’t say they were avid learners—they didn’t ask many questions or take much initiative—but they listened and learned easily. The lessons significantly reduced their aggression.
At the end of the first year, the Toronto District School Board required that home-schooled children take a general exam to make sure they were meeting Ontario program requirements. I had no doubt that the twins would pass effortlessly.
The exam was scheduled on a Friday at the neighbourhood school’s gym. That morning, I hadn’t bothered to explain to the boys why we were going to the school, as I wanted to avoid causing them any undue stress. I simply dressed them nicely and did their hair, and we set out.
I had imagined that the board had chosen this date because there was a school holiday, and was surprised to discover that it was in fact a day like any other and the school was full of children. A sign pointed us to the gym, where we were greeted by the elementary school principal. In the gym, they had set out little tables, on which were placed a few sheets of paper, a pencil, and an eraser. A number of children would be completing the mandatory exam at the same time. We waited on the stage for the rest of the little candidates to arrive. There was a dozen. I was stunned that this many children in the neighbourhood were home-schooled. I thought we were the only ones. The twins examined every child who walked into the gym. It was obvious that many of them had learning disabilities, which explained their parents’ choice.
The exam was made up of a written component, which tested a number of school subjects, and an oral exam, during which each child met individually with a teacher. The whole thing happened in the gym, with the interviews held in a secluded corner. It took about an hour to complete the two parts of the exam, at the end of which we went home. The results would be mailed to us.
On the way home, the twins refused to walk beside me, preferring to trail behind. On the doorstep, they stopped and wouldn’t go into the house. They refused together as one.
“What are you doing? Come on,” I said.
“No,” replied Vanya.
“Do you want to play outside?” I asked.
“No,” replied Daniil.
“What’s going on? Are you upset?”
“It’s over,” said Vanya after a pause.
“What’s over, Vanya?” I asked, starting to lose patience.
“We don’t want to work here anymore. We want to go to school.”
It felt like I was the one who had just failed the exam.
Because it was the children’s decision, Gregory was remarkably conciliatory.
“It’s a good thing that they want to be with others. You must have boosted their confidence and now they’re ready.”
I wondered whether they were more interested in escaping me than integrating, but I kept that thought to myself.
And so it was that, in September, once I had performed all the necessary steps, they went straight into grade two. They would soon be seven years old. The administration insisted on placing them in separate classes; it was the policy for all children from the same family, they told me, to put an end to my
