Commentary
The other day, I reposted a video of my husband working alongside our children. In it, my 8-year-old daughter was driving a Caterpillar 416 while my 10-year-old son maneuvered a John Deere skid steer, augering holes for a new greenhouse. To me, it was an ordinary moment of family life on the farm. To the internet, apparently, it was shocking.
Within hours, I had messages flooding in: “There’s a fine line between homeschool and child labor.” “Your kids won’t be able to relate to society.”
Others took shots at Christian homeschooling. I was stunned. I grew up on a farm. My brother and I—and even neighborhood friends—pitched in. Ours was a fruit farm, so I didn’t tend animals, but I did help with the land. I also worked in my mother’s dress business. We packed boxes, sewed on buttons, glued thousands of fabric swatches onto cards for trade shows, and helped at farmers markets and craft fairs. Sometimes we were paid, sometimes we weren’t—but we were always part of the family team. Why is that suddenly unacceptable?
I think the controversy reveals a bigger cultural divide: the difference between farm chores and suburban chores. In many suburban households, kids might load the dishwasher or take out the trash—tasks that are useful, but rarely essential to the household’s survival or livelihood. On a farm, chores are woven into the fabric of family and community. When my kids harvest herbs for tinctures, set tables at our restaurant, pack meat boxes for delivery, or sell lemonade at our festivals, they aren’t just “helping.” They’re participating in real life. Their contributions matter.
This isn’t exploitation; it’s education. It teaches resilience, resourcefulness, and responsibility in ways no worksheet ever could. Just this week, three of my children—ages 5, 8, and 10—saved up their money, bought five meat rabbits, and built housing for them out of scrap metal, cages, and cinderblocks. They even ordered a calendar so they can track breeding and weaning. Tell me: what science or math lesson could be more practical than that?
The ability to push through discomfort is a skill. The ability to work outside in the Texas sun, to contribute to something bigger than yourself, to solve problems with your own two hands—these are skills that last a lifetime. As a society, we pray to the gods of comfort, of ease, of efficiency, and we’ve lost the ability to do real work. We act as if driving in traffic is hard. It’s not. It’s just not getting what we want in the very moment that we want it. Most of the time we’re sitting in an air-conditioned space. Nothing is wrong.
I don’t want to raise kids who crumble at inconvenience. I want to raise kids who can thrive in all kinds of circumstances, who are resilient, and who enjoy the feeling of accomplishment that comes from building something. My son Rio is a perfect example. He makes a hair oil that he sells in our farm store—women love it and come back for more. He’s 10 years old, and he can harvest herbs, infuse them in oil, bottle it, and label it without a problem. He’s learning not only how to create a product, but also how to build a business. He’s learning that persistence pays off, because he’s watched his parents push through 1,000 times—and now he’s able to step in and help us.
So why did my video trigger such outrage? Perhaps because modern culture has divorced childhood from contribution. We imagine kids should be perpetually entertained, enrolled, and distracted, but rarely expected to work. We treat responsibility like a burden instead of a gift. The irony is that the very skills people say I’m denying my kids—the ability to think critically, to solve problems, to understand systems—are exactly what they’re learning on the farm. The difference is that their education isn’t abstract. It’s alive.
When I was a kid, I learned as much in the garden with my aunt, in the orchard with my father, or in the dress business with my mother as I ever did at school. Maybe I learned more. Those experiences built grit, creativity, and confidence. Now, I’m passing that on to my own children. My kids may prefer air conditioning to farm chores in August—who doesn’t?—but they’re also learning that life isn’t about constant comfort. It’s about showing up, contributing, and being part of a family and a community. That, to me, is the real purpose of education: to prepare children not just to pass tests, but to live.
So no, my kids aren’t victims of child labor. They’re farmers’ kids. They’re entrepreneurs. They’re contributors. And I wouldn’t trade that education for anything.
