Teaching Genius, I Tells Ya'

I sometimes worry that I think to much about what the kids are going to do at school each day. I mean, I suppose that has something to do with the fact that I'm "the teacher," and thinking about what the kids are going to do at school each day is a big part of the job. In fact, that's pretty much what my employment agreement boils down to: come up with stuff for the kids to do and we'll pay you. 

The truth is that the best I can do is provide opportunities for the kids to do stuff, but it's really up to them whether or not they do them. And typically, enough of them engage enough of the "activities" I've planned that it looks like I know what I'm doing, but the best stuff . . . Well, for the sake of my family, I guess I ought to take credit for that too.

The big deal activity for the 3-5's class in the outdoor classroom these days is for anywhere from two to ten kids to grab ahold of a rope, then follow one another, usually quickly, all around the space: a version of follow-the-leader that the kids seem to be calling "Zoom" or "Zooming." On Monday, it was just one group of guys with one rope. Yesterday, there must have been four or five Zooming teams racing around the place.

Now, I am responsible for those ropes being out there, but those particular ropes, the long, yellow nylon ones, have been there quite a long time, doing nothing more than being a pain in the neck. We've long had a collection of 3-foot long ropes out there -- those get used for all kinds of things -- but since I've added the long ropes, they've really been more of a nuisance, regularly being pulled out, found too unwieldy for practical purposes, then left in the middle of a walkway to trip the next passerby. I'd made a mental note just last week to toss the ropes back in the shed, forgot, and so they were left out for just that one extra day which made all the difference. Teaching genius, I tells ya'. 

One of the things I've started doing each Friday is to finish our week by asking the kids in our 5's class to help me with my curriculum planning (the fancy term for "stuff for kids to do") by helping me compile a list of activities they'd like to see in the near future. One such wish was for a return of the ever popular tennis balls and cardboard tubes set up. I obliged that request last week.

This is something we've done a lot over the years, kids setting the tubes on blocks to create ramps and angles, then studying how their balls roll through them. It's usually one of the most reliably successful activities I plan, but last week it felt like a mess in all three classes. I don't know what was different, maybe there were too many tubes, maybe not enough, maybe it was because we used the large wooden blocks instead of the cardboard blocks, maybe it was the weather. Really, who knows, but in the 5's class the kids were really more focused on hoarding the balls than actually playing with them, the 3-5's wanted to build with the tubes and ignore the balls altogether, while the Pre-3's -- at least a few of them, and that's really enough to dominate an activity -- were hell-bent on just knocking everything down then, I guess, rolling around on the floor amidst the debris.

At one point as the Pre-3's played I tried to get things back on track by holding one of the longer tubes in my hands, thus foregoing the easily knocked over block tower, and role model rolling balls down it. Before I could roll the first ball, however, one of the boys picked up the lower end and peered into it. I peered back at him. We shouted a few words to one another through the long darkness, then I said, "I'm going to roll a ball to you."

He didn't move his face, so I said, "If you don't move your face, the ball will hit you."

He smiled at me through the tube.

I said, "I'm going to roll the ball. I don't want to hurt your face."

He answered, "I want to see the ball coming."

"Okay." I adjusted the angle so that the ball wouldn't be going too terribly fast and let it go. I'd anticipated him moving at the last moment, but no, the ball hit him square in the nose. I was now expecting tears, but instead got a giggle. He then returned the ball to me via the long tube and waited for me to once more roll the ball down into his face. We repeated this several times. Soon there was a clamor of 2 and 3-year-olds who also wanted a tennis ball to hit them in the nose. This is what I'd managed to role model.

So again and again, I rolled balls into the noses of young children, who then returned the balls to me for "more." Teaching genius, I tells ya'.

Sigh.

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I'm Playing

One of the more pleasant aspects of being a teacher is being acknowledged around the holidays by the families. Now I'm an enormous fan of baked goods and other sweets, most of which don't even make the trip from the school to my home, but this past year, they were generous enough in the form of gift cards and cash that I was able to purchase the new bicycle for which I'd been hankering. 

It's a pretty ride: gun metal gray with orange wheels, hand grips, and brake cable housing. This is a single speed road bike, meaning that I've dispensed with shifting gears, relying solely on the strength of my legs. It comes with what's called a flip-flop hub. This allows me to ride it either with a flywheel, which means I can coast down hills and around corners, or I can ride it as a fixed gear bike, which means I'm pedaling all the time I'm on it. For the past few weeks I've been riding it as a "fixie."

If you're unfamiliar with Seattle and it's environs you should know that this is a city built on hills. The ability to downshift to make it to the top of say, Queen Anne Hill or Capital Hill, is generally considered to be vital if you're going to actually use a bike for transportation and not just recreation. So you'll probably not be surprised to learn that the first question everyone has asked me about my new bike is, "Why?" Why would anyone attempt to navigate Seattle on a single speed bike that forces you to keep pedaling at all times, even around corners?

I've developed a sort of vague answer, one that involves having grown irritated with the need to constantly be fiddling with derailleurs, cables, squeaky pulleys, and doubts about which of the 21 gears really is best for this or that assent, which has the benefit of being part of the truth. Another part of my answer involves a confession that I'd been noticing that fixies were the bikes of choice for all those lean, mean 25-year-old bicycle messengers charging up and down our hills, and this old man wants to show those whippersnappers a thing or two. And then there's the whole "spiritual" part, where I talk about feeling a "direct connection" to this simplified machine, my standard line being, "Riding my new bike feels the way I always knew riding a bike could feel." It's at this point that people realize that I really don't have a good answer.

Last week I was sitting in the sandpit near a wide, deep hole that children from all of the classes had been working on digging over the course of the preceding few days. Ben said, "Watch this, Teacher Tom," before toeing the edge of the hole, taking a moment to gather himself, then leaping across it.

"You jumped over that hole."

Then it was William's turn who also wanted to test himself against the hole.

Before long it was a game with a half dozen 5-year-olds taking turns. It reminded me, as many things do in our preschool, of similar games of jumping over road side drainage ditches as a boy. 

As the kids jumped, I recalled a moment earlier in the day when the kids in our 3-5's class were playing with one of our giant tubes and tennis balls. They'd stood the tube on its end, filled it with balls, then when the balls ran out, they tossed in a whicker basket. Luella had moved a block over to the tube to stand on as she peered inside, "Oh no, Teacher Tom, look!" She pointed into the tube. "I can't reach it!" She demonstrated by dangling her arm into the hole, but coming up short. "How are we going to get the basket out of there?"

It was an invitation that the other kids took up right away, each of them taking a turn standing on the block trying to reach the basket. At one point someone suggested they just lift up the tube in order to get at it from the bottom, but this idea was rejected out of hand, "No! If we do that the balls will get away! We have to reach it." They kept stacking more and more blocks in tackling the challenge they'd set for themselves, one they never accomplished, but that occupied them for a good 15 minutes.

It wasn't long before the kitty joined the basket.

It would be easier, more practical, to walk around or even through that hole in the sand pit. It would, of course, make more sense to just reach that whicker basket from the bottom, then refill the tube with the balls that escaped. However, I never once thought as I watched these efforts to ask the kids "Why?" because we all know, this is what play looks like, and play is why we're at school.

And honestly, that's the answer I ought to be giving people about my new bike. I'm not riding it to make life easier, because it doesn't. I'm not riding it because it's more efficient, because it's not. I'm not even riding it because it's safer, because, frankly, it isn't. I'm riding it because it's way more fun. I'm playing, and that should be the satisfactory stand-alone answer we give for our nonsense, whatever our age.

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Kids Today Know What's What

A few days ago I wrote about how climbing apparatuses, the centerpieces of most modern playgrounds, are largely a waste of space, at least when it comes to schools, backyards, and other places where the same children play day-after-day.

Having observed thousands of children at these playgrounds, I've noticed that most kids hit that climbing structure hard for the first 15-20 minutes or so, then they're on to other things. Families with climbers in their yards complain that their kids never use them except when briefly made new again by having friends come to visit.

When I wrote this, having not really made a formal study of it, I was more or less stating a hypothesis that I knew to be true in its essence although not necessarily in its particulars. Little did I know that this assertion would be put to a test only a few days later.

Our 5's class paid a visit to The Great Harvest bakery in Lake Forest Park, which is owned by the grandparents of one of our students. We were returning the visit to our school the day before by "Kernel Wheat" (really grandpa) who prepared us for our field trip by teaching us about how wheat becomes flour, then bread. 

It was a great, hands-on experience for the kids. We were invited to plunge our hands into a large bag of wheat berries . . . 

. . . got to stand inside the huge oven, examine the giant mixer . . . 

. . . and make our own personalized loaf of bread. Addison was particularly proud of his nautilus shell shaped loaf.

While the bread baked, we took a sack full of cookies across the way to a small pocket park on the north shore of Lake Washington where there was a fairly impressive climber. The kids made a beeline for it, swarming up its ladders, across its bouncy bridges, and down its slides. I made a point of noting the time. One aspect of the set up that impressed me was that adjacent to the big, modern, right-out-of-the-box climber, stood an old school jungle gym like I used to play on as a boy, with its grid-like structure, hard steel bars, and built in monkey bars. I wondered if this would somehow affect the results of my test.

And I was proven wrong, if not in the big picture, at least in the specifics. It, in fact, took less than 10 minutes before the climber was bereft of children. 

During the following half hour or so, an occasional kid would make a solo foray up the ladder and down the slide, but otherwise we much preferred the beach, the dock, and the soccer ball we found there. Kids today know what's what.

Despite having eaten dessert first in the form of those cookies, we were all still sufficiently hungry upon our return to also devour our freshly baked bread.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

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PBS Kids

I've made no secret of my admiration for Mister Rogers. I assert that his long-running program, Mister Roger's Neighborhood, is the greatest thing the Public Broadcasting System (PBS) has ever produced. Indeed, in some ways it was one of the greatest television programs ever produced, period. This man, with simple, consistent, straight-forward sincerity and a deep love and understanding of young children demonstrated what good educational television can do; that it can reach very young viewers at their level. There were other children's programs, many of them very good, but none has ever been as child-focused or as concerned with educating the whole child as this program.

When I was first approached by PBS Kids to take part in their new "It All Adds Up" awareness program designed "to support the development of early math and literacy skills in children ages 2-8 from low income families," however, I hesitated. As I've written before, I'm not a fan of television for young children and, in general, am skeptical of the value of other types of screen time and this initiative includes over 100 games and apps that have been created by PBS Kids to help build math and literacy skills.

As you can imagine I spent several days in a kind of low-level anguish, weighing on the one hand Mister Rogers' legacy and on the other this collection of games and apps. I finally came down on the side of Mister Rogers, concluding as he did, that children and their parents are going to be looking at those screens whether I like it or not, so it behooves me to do what I can, if given the opportunity, to shape what little part on which they let me put my hands. I've agreed to take part as one of a group of five Math Mentors (you'll have to scroll down to the second post), "a team of early childhood educators and bloggers who will provide parents tips and ideas on how to help children ages 2-8 learn early math concepts and integrate math activities into their daily lives." We will write math-oriented posts and host monthly social media chats to engage directly with parents. And in the interest of full disclosure, I am receiving a small fee for this.

The two things that tipped the scales in PBS Kids' favor were the list of my fellow "Math Mentors," a couple of whom I already know and respect through my blogging endeavors, and the fact that funding comes from the US Department of Education, an entity I've long been at odds with over their approach to public education. Maybe someone there will hear me.

I'm assuming that the folks at PBS Kids have taken a look at this blog and know about our whole play-based approach to early years learning, math included. I'm assuming that I've been hired to represent this point of view on PBS Kids. And I'm quite excited to bring this perspective to a wider audience. I won't likely be writing about the games and apps, focusing instead on how young children are already "math ready," how when they're given the opportunity to play in a rich environment, they will be laying the foundation for a lifetime of exploration and experimentation.

I'll keep you informed about how it's going and hope to see many of you there!

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

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A Confession, An Apology, And A Change

I've posted here almost daily since June, 2009. There are over 1350 pieces in the archives, most of which are unique, although there are a few duplicates because I occasionally dig back into the past for posts from the time when I had no readers, freshen them up with new photos or a bit of updated verbiage, then post them anew. I started blogging because I'd written a handful of early childhood related articles for local magazines, newsletters, and whatnot, thought were pretty good, and wanted them to have a place to "live" beyond the paper on which they'd originally been printed. Over the years, however, this has evolved into a place for my reflective practice, a daily opportunity to think through and process what's really going on with me as a teacher, the kids, the families, and the larger world. That anyone bothers to read what I publish here is both a source of surprise and pride.

During the week I give myself about an hour to write before heading off for school (which is why there are, regrettably, so many typos). Sometimes I wake up already knowing my topic, although more often than not, I turn on the machine and whatever comes out is what winds up on this page. Sometimes I'm inspired by the photos I take of our days at school, sometimes by an article link one of my families or a reader has sent me, but usually it's just whatever is on my mind as I prepare for another day. I think that by now my writing is as good as it will ever be, and I'm proud of the shear volume of material I've produced over the past four years.

That said, I'm pretty sucky about the marketing and communication elements of being a blogger. For instance, I know that I'm not as chatty in the comments, either here or on Facebook, as I ought to be if I were really serious about building the "Teacher Tom brand." My email inbox gets clogged and I know I've allowed many good opportunities to slip by, mostly because I'm just flat-out done with staring at the damn computer. I'm sorry if you're someone who has asked me a question, invited me to speak at your conference or write for your website or contribute to your book, requested I take part in your link-up or forum or workshop or documentary, inquired about advertising or an endorsement, or just reached out to me in friendship and camaraderie only to be met with crickets. It's nothing personal and though it be cold comfort, please know I'm grateful. Please also know, I've always made a mental note to get back to you, but in the scramble of priorities that is the life of teaching in three schools and being a father, husband, and son, I've learned that those mental notes aren't really worth much. 

It's occurred to me that if I'm going to get better at these things, I'm will need to approach it like I do the day-to-day writing, and I do want to get better at these things. I really, really like the daily writing part, and it will be hard for me, but my plan is to cut back to producing new posts 4-5 days a week instead of the current 7, using those stolen hours to focus on the cool stuff that's been falling through the cracks. This likely means that I won't be posting on the weekends, although I reserve the right to change that.

I don't know if anyone cares or not, or if anyone who doesn't read this post will even notice that I'm not posting daily (I'm sure I wouldn't if I were a reader), but it will be a big change for me and hopefully give me some of my best early morning fresh brain time to concentrate on some of these other opportunities. 

Thanks.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

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The Gift They Give Me

Parent educator Dawn Carlson tells a story about a young 2-year-old struggling with the idea of which block towers were okay to knock down and which were not. Dawn said, "You can knock down your block tower, but you may not knock down his block tower." After repeating it several times, but to no avail, it suddenly occurred to Dawn that it could be a problem with pronouns and rephrased her statement, "Billy can knock down Billy's block towers, but Billy may not knock down Sally's block tower." It worked.

As adults who work with young children, one of our primary roles is to serve as guides to these humans who are just beginning to explore the idea of "self." We've already had decades to sort out our own ideas about who we are and how we stand in relation to those around us. We've already picked (or had picked for us) the labels that apply. And some of us, in turn, have picked the therapist who is going to help change those labels (or learn to accept them). We've lived through our own personal phases and crazes. We know there are more to come. I can imagine that there are some of us, a rare breed indeed, who have come to view that thing we call our self as more or less fixed, but most know, probably even hope, that a new and improved self is in our future, one that includes the better part of every age we've ever been.

Preschoolers aren't aware of any of this, of course. It's one of the things we envy, that they carry little baggage through the world, able to change who they are on a dime, on a whim, with the donning of a costume or the mere assumption of an attitude. It's an aspect of what we see as innocence, the loss of which, even the prospect of that loss, sometimes freezing us into inactivity, sometimes rushing us into a protective stance. Emotionally, we don't want them to change, to learn the harsh lessons, to have others challenge their sense of self, even as we know they must.

I'll never forget how angry it made me when my own 3-year-old came home from a visit with a beloved relative, to say, "I don't like her any more. She always tells me how I feel. And she's wrong!" With a little more digging I learned that Josephine was objecting to such phrases as, "Oh, you're not sad," or "You don't have anything to be mad about." Even as I understood these cliches as well-intended parenting echos from across generations, it outraged me to think that some bigger, older adult would dare challenge my child's sense of self. At the same time I was proud that Josephine had rallied to the challenge this time, knowing that she, and only she, was the expert on her own feelings.

What we see as our self perhaps starts as a seed planted within us at birth, but how it grows is determined by our interactions with the other people. I think most of us, in our ideal world, naively value the idea of standing back in order to allow the "natural self" to emerge as fully as possible, that self untainted or unrestrained by the rest of us.

But we're already too late. From the moment of birth until the day we die, our self is shaped by the people around us, for better or worse. In fact, I doubt that self even exists beyond the context of others and our relationships with them. No matter how experienced we are in the world, we continue donning costumes and assuming attitudes, and no matter how firmly we assert "I don't care what anyone thinks," we really do: we really must. It's how we discover who we are. I've come to understand self not as something I am or something I become, but rather something I learn. And it's only something that can be understood through the other people. 

Without the other people I don't exist. My self is the gift they give me.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

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