Exploring the World is How We Explore Our Minds

She stopped right inside the gate. In fact, her mother had to nudge her through and there she stood looking at our junkyard playground for the first time. She was only two-years-old and her mother had brought her to the Woodland Park Cooperative Preschool for the first time. She was not going to be left with us. Her mother was going to stay with her, side-by-side, bottom-on-lap, arms wrapped around one another if that was necessary, because that's the way cooperatives work.

The girl's mother waved to me, then bent to talk softly into her daughter's ear. The girl was probably listening, but there was no visual indication that she heard her mother, or even that her mother was there. She was studying this new place, probably, knowing the way humans work, looking for something familiar. That would be her entry point.

For some kids, the newness is so overwhelming that the only familiar thing they can see is the adult who arrived with them, but this girl, Paula, spotted a small stuffed bear lying on its face. She took her mother's hand and toddled down the short stairway. When she hit the ground, she freed herself and careened toward the bear, falling on her belly. It was her first lesson in the slope and unevenness that characterizes our playground. She lay within inches of the bear. She turned over and, from her seat, she picked it up with one hand. With her other, she brushed at it, knocking off wood chips, decaying leaves, and sand. She scowled into its eyeless face, then, still holding it in one hand pushed herself onto her feet and toddled back to her mother, not falling this time. Wordlessly, she offered the bear to her mother and her mother took it, who replied with a torrent of enthusiastic words.

Knowing what I know about humans, and especially young children, I recognized that Paula had made a first connection between life as she knew it and this new place. 

As the days passed, she would hand many more things to her mother, who wouldn't always be enthusiastic. Indeed, as her mother likewise became better connected to our space, she was less inclined to nervous enthusiasm and more likely to respond informatively. She would say things like, "This looks like a steering wheel," or "Ugh, that's disgusting." 

Before long, Paula began to connect me to her world by handing things to me as well. As she got to know the other children and the other children's parents, she would try out connecting with them too. None of us responded exactly as her mother had, even when handed the steering wheel. For instance, I pretended I was driving a car, saying, "Vroom, vroom" and "Honk, honk." The other children did even more interesting things in response to being connected to Paula through the steering wheel. Some banged it on the ground. Some tried to roll it down the slope. Many dropped it. Most, after putting it through its paces, handed it back to Paula.

Exploring the world is how we explore our minds. This lifelong expedition is about connecting what we know with the new things we come across until those new things are also part of what we know. No one needs to tell us, just as no one needed to tell Paula, that to really understand something, you must strive to have it in your hands and to look at it from a variety of perspectives, including those offered by the other people. And there is nothing more natural, more normal, than to do it alongside loved ones. Eventually, Paula would be experienced or confident or curious enough to explore without her mother immediately at her side, at her own pace, until she could securely explore both alone and in the company of this wider "family" that she had both discovered and created.

"A husband, a wife and some kids is not a family," writes Kurt Vonnegut, "It's a terribly vulnerable survival unit . . . I met a man in Nigeria one time, an Ibo who had six hundred relatives he knew quite well. His wife had just had a baby, the best possible news in an extended family. They were going to take it to meet all its relatives, Ibos of all ages, sizes and shapes. It would even meet other babies, cousins not much older than it was. Everybody who was big enough and steady enough was going to get to hold it, cuddle it, gurgle it . . . Wouldn't you have loved to be that baby?"

This is what our children need, this extended family, this village of connection, this place of love and connection that is our birthright. I share Vonnegut's wish: "I really, over the long run, hope America would find some way to provide all of our citizens with extended families -- a large group of people they could call on for help."

That is what I set out to create as an educator, a place for families to connect, whether for a few years or a lifetime. This is what I wish we all understood as not just education, but life itself.

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This happens tomorrow, so . . . last chance! . . . Let's make this year Our Year of Play! Early childhood educators, directors, homeschoolers, and parents of young children . . . please join me for this affirmative and informative live workshop. In the spirit of inclusiveness, I've kept the price as low as possible ($9), so share far and wide. This is a great way to get the whole team on the same page for the New Year. Certificates are available. A replay will also be available. For more information and to register, click here: Making 2026 Our Year of Play

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!

The Boy Who Found School Disappointing

"Children do not like being incompetent any more than they like being ignorant. They want to learn how to do, and do well, the things they see being done by bigger people around them. This is why they soon find school such a disappointment; they so seldom get a chance to learn anything important or do anything real. But many of the defenders of childhood, in or out of school, seem to have this vested interest in the children's incompetence, which they often call "letting the child be a child." ~John Holt

As a two-year-old, Angus found school disappointing. 

"He likes school," his mother told me one day as we watched him play alone in his own corner of the playground, "But he'd like it a lot better without the other kids." She said it with a chuckle, one that told me she appreciated it as an eccentricity. I didn't tell her that it's quite common for children her son's age to feel that way mainly because to do so would have been to risk robbing her of her delight.

As a cooperative school, Angus' mother was always welcome in the classroom and she had so far opted to be there every day. During the first week of school she told me of how she had prepared Angus by telling him that school was a place where he would learn stuff. He had interpreted this to mean that he was going to learn to drive a Metro bus.

He was passionate about Metro buses. He was disdainful of school busses. And he actively disliked the toy school school busses we had in the classroom. He came by his driving interest honestly. Riding Metro was often how he and his mother spent their days away from preschool. Sometimes they would choose a destination, figure out their route, then execute their plan. Other times, they would simply choose a specific line out of curiosity and ride it to see where it went. 

One day, I told him I needed to get to my doctor's office in Lake City after school and he informed me which buses I would need to take to get there from the school. When I told him I had to go home first, he asked me where I lived, then recalculated based on this new starting point. One day as we played together I began to quiz him on bus routes. "Where does the 62 go?" "How about the 550?" As far as I could tell, he knew his stuff.

After absorbing the disappointment of not getting to learn to drive a bus, he settled into a routine of pretending to be a bus driver, sitting alone, usually with his back to the rest of us, employing whatever circular shaped object he could find as a steering wheel. To be allowed into his private world one had to wait until he "stopped" and opened the door for you. His expectation was then that you sat behind him. He  would then speak to you, eyes forward, hands on the wheel. When he was done with you, he would inform you that you had arrived at your stop, then pantomime opening the door to let you out.

As he got older, he began to "drive" his bus around the playground (i.e., holding his steering wheel and running). Before long he had established several stops. Children would often wait at one of the stops for Angus, who would transport them (i.e., the children ran along behind him) to as near their destinations as the route would allow. He spent one morning making construction paper "Orca Cards," which is what Metro calls its passes, and distributed them to his classmates. It irritated him that he had to make new ones the following day. "They're supposed to keep them in their wallets!" He carried a wallet in which he carried his own real and pretend Orca Cards. Eventually, other children were inspired to start their own bus routes and for a time we had an entire mass transit system on our playground.

As he got older, he became interested in other things, including the other kids, but never did take much of an interest in any of our toys. When he played "construction," he eschewed such childish things as blocks and Legos. He needed real "lumber," a hammer, a saw, and "a lot of nails." I once offered him a yellow costume construction worker helmet, but he rejected it with the wave of his hand. When his attentions turned to insects, only the real things would do. No picture books or plastic bugs for him. He was even suspicious of the lady bugs we raised in the classroom from larva because we kept them indoors rather than outdoors. He didn't use the words "natural habitat," but it was there in his assessment of the situation.

Angus expressed himself well, even as a two-year-old which caused the other adults to consider him "advanced" or even "gifted," but the more I got to know him over the years, the more I came to understand him as simply more "natural" than most of his classmates. I once visited his home. There were no toys in evidence, no safety gates, and no childish art taped up on the walls. The only things that might have caused one to suspect a child lived there were the muddy holes dug in the backyard, the odd collections of household items to be spied around the house, and the bedroom wall covered in framed photographs of Metro busses.

Today, when I hear the expression, "Let the child be a child," this competent, self-directed boy is the first person who comes to mind.

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Even the most thriving play-based environments can grow stale at times. I've created this collection of my favorite free (or nearly free) resources for educators, parents, and others who work with young children. It's my gift to you! Click here to download your own copy and never run out of ideas again!

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The Central Project of Every Civilization That Has Ever Existed

One of my college courses included learning about various models of early childhood education. My classmates were mostly public school teachers earning continuing education credits. For several classes running we listened as guest speakers detailed the theory and practice of such approaches as Waldorf, Montessori, Reggio Emilia, and Hi/Scope. When it came time to learn about the cooperative model we heard from Val Donato who was at the time the director of the North Seattle College Parent Education Department.

Val explained how the parents in a co-op own and operate the school at every level from the executive to the janitorial, with the teacher being the sole paid employee. We learned that every parent spends one day a week serving as an assistant teacher, bringing the adult to child ratio up to the incredible 1:2 or 1:3 category. She taught us about the benefits of teachers and parents working so closely together, both inside and outside the classroom, to create a unique learning experience for each child.

There was the usual polite applause when Val wrapped up, but the moment she left the classroom, there was an audible gasp.

“I could never do that!” said one teacher.

“It would be like having 20 bosses!” said another.

There was general agreement that the whole idea was crazy.

At this point, I’d only experienced co-op as a parent, although I’d already signed my contract to teach at Woodland Park the following year. Needless to say, I was cowed into a doubtful silence. Twenty bosses did kind of sound like a nightmare.

Twenty Bosses
I’ve now spent decades in cooperative preschool classrooms, both as a parent and teacher. I’ve never once felt like I had 20 bosses. Instead, I’ve always felt like I had 20 colleagues in the form of dedicated assistant teachers. And these are not just any teachers; these are teachers bringing mountains of love into the classroom. 

Of course, at one level it’s true that I have 20 bosses. It’s the entire parent community that hires and fires. It’s the entire parent community that judges, evaluates, and compensates. And it’s the entire parent community that observes and participates in every activity that takes place within the four walls of the school. And it’s just possible -- probably likely -- that I’m a better teacher because of all those parent eyes on me all the time! 

On a day-to-day basis, however, these same “bosses” work in the classroom under my supervision. They are in the trenches with me, so to speak, sharing the work, rewards and challenges. These are not just the parents of my students; they are my colleagues, allies and friends. 

It’s the kind of dynamic that can only be found in organizations that operate on cooperative principles. 

The Cooperative Model vs. Capitalism
When I look at my own relationships with institutions, the best ones are with cooperatives. I was a long time Puget Consumer Cooperative grocery member. I buy my outdoor gear at the REI cooperative. I received the best health care of my life as a member of the Group Health Cooperative (where our daughter was born). I love my credit union. These are all variations on the co-op theme, but none are so pure as our cooperative preschool.

As we’re now witnessing the ugly downside brought on by 50 years of increasingly unfettered capitalism and its almost religious quest for profit, it’s hard not to imagine how the cooperative model could be advantageously applied to other institutions. 

For instance, when the “customers” own the business, it stands to reason that they will focus like a laser on fulfilling their own wants and needs. When stockholders are the owners, the focus is on the customers only as far as it feeds profits. When applied to healthcare the capitalist model places profit over healthcare. In education it places profit over education. In government it places profit over governing.

When the “employees” hire, fire and pay their own “bosses”, the actual performance of management isn’t hidden in the puffy language of annual reports or stockholder meetings. Performance is totally transparent, found right there in the daily reality of how the institution functions. Capitalist owners tend to primarily consult this quarter’s bottom line when evaluating their managers, while cooperative owners (incentivized by the desire to continue to have their jobs well into the future) tend to focus the long-term health of the institution. 

When capitalist bosses hire, fire and pay employees, we ultimately wind up with an adversarial relationship in which labor becomes just another expense to cut because management is incentivized to look to the next dividend checks. When compensation is a matter of cooperative negotiation, “labor” becomes an asset or even (dare I suggest it?) human beings. And, of course, there is no better way to rein-in exorbitant “executive” pay.

I’m not saying I’m against capitalism, but I do believe that the dangers of unregulated capitalism are manifest and that not every institution benefits from the capitalist model. What I am saying is that when we take the imperatives of profit and obscene executive pay off the table, the cooperative model can in many cases be a far more efficient and effective means for satisfying “demand”. 

But enough of “radical” economics
The best thing about a cooperative is what it does to our relationship to institutions and the people we find there. Traditional institutions are about people doing things to and for other people. Cooperative institutions are about people doing things with each other.

I understand the reaction of those public school teachers. They are providing education to children and for parents. In their lives a parent’s request to “talk” is all too often a cause for dread. Who doesn’t feel anxious about being called into their boss’s office? As a co-op teacher, on the other hand, I talk with my colleague-bosses every day, work with them, supervise them, and get supervised by them. But it’s much more than that. I also goof around with them. I share joys and sorrows with them. We’re friends and colleagues. 

I have learned a lot about how to create and maintain a genuine community of families from my decades working in a cooperative, experience that forms the foundation for my course for early childhood educators called Partnering With Parents (see below). Not every school can be a cooperative, but every school can and should be a learning community of families, a place where educators, parents, and children live and work together as a village centered around the central project of every civilization that has ever existed: caring for children.

I love the Woodland Park Cooperative Preschool and I know I’m not the only one. Families return year-after-year, child-after-child, choosing time and again to be part of what I only half-jokingly refer to as our little communist society.

I probably don’t want a cooperative making my televisions or washing machines and I’m not deaf to the argument that competition and the prospects of great wealth can lead a certain type of high-achiever to innovation and economic growth. On the other hand, I’ve seen how cooperation within the context of a committed, loving preschool community consistently “turns a profit” in the coin of confident, well-prepared kindergarteners. That’s what we come together to do.

And there’s nothing crazy about that.

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Sometimes it seems like the most challenging part of our job is dealing with parents. At the same time, we all know that it takes a village to raise a child. As preschool educators, we don't just educate children, but their families as well. For decades, I've been working in a place that puts the tricornered relationship of child-parent-educator at the center, and over that time I've learned a great deal about how to work with families to create the kind of village every child needs and deserves. I've assembled what I've learned course called Partnering With Parents in which I share my best thinking on how educators can and should make allies of the parents of the children we teach. Click this link to register for the 2025 cohort and to learn more. Discounts are available for groups. Registration closes at the end of this week, so act now!

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!

The Only Way We Will Get There is With Parents as Our Allies

I recently led a workshop on the benefits of risky play for young children. I like to start these sessions off by sharing a story of risk from my own childhood. In this case, it involved an adventure that featured leaving our parents on the beach, climbing a rocky cliff that overlooked the ocean, eating found fruit, exploring a cave, then finding our way back to our parents by walking along a shoulder-less roadway as cars sped past. As far as risks from my own childhood go, it was a fairly middling story, illustrative, but not too hair-raising.

I then invite others to share their risky play stories. One educator told of getting wet in a creek after her mother explicitly warned her not to. She and her friends then went into their barn, poured gasoline into a pan, set it on fire, then used the flames to dry their clothing. Another spoke of jumping bicycles off the garage roof. There were other stories of similar ilk, all told with expressions of giddiness, even pride. This is what I'm accustomed to in these workshops: it gets the ball rolling and, I hope, causes educators to reflect on risky play as it relates to the children in their care.

These stories had been shared by educators who I judged to be older than 40, but this was an unusual workshop for me because there were a number of teenagers and very young adults in the room. I wanted a few more examples and since these young people had so far been silent, I coaxed one of them, a young man of about 20 to open up. He said, "Just last month I went night-camping for the first time because I'm working on my night camping certification. I worried because there are coyotes out there." He wore a similar look of giddiness and pride, but his story hurt my heart. By the time I was his age, I'd camped out on my own dozens of time, all without any sort of certification, and more than once without my parents' knowledge. 

I went on to another young person who told us that she had recently gone on her first road trip "alone with friends." The big risk was that they found themselves without "data" so their GPS didn't work and they had to find their way without it. That was every day for those of us who grew up in the 60's and 70's.

Of course, I've read about this phenomenon, young people being raised without the experience of genuine risk. They've lived their entire lives under adult supervision and now, as young adults themselves, the most risky thing they can imagine is to be without that supervision. They feel so "behind" to me. I worry about what they will do, what risks they will take, as they find themselves going off to college or getting their first full-time jobs, and discover themselves without their parents always at hand. Indeed, I've read about parents continuing to attempt to supervise their adult children from afar, checking up on them through professors, employers, and, yes, even drill sergeants. 

The most obvious impact is learned incompetence and anxiety, but more importantly these children are missing out on -- or at least delaying -- the cognitive, emotional, social, and physical benefits of what, until very recently, was considered "normal" childhood risk-taking: great heights, great speeds, rough-and-tumble play, dangerous tools and elements (like gasoline!), and disappearing or getting lost. Parents have never been particularly keen on allowing their children any of this, of course, even in the 60's and 70's, but when left to their own devices, children will naturally take risks, and learn from those risks, perhaps the most important lesson being how to balance courage with an accurate assessment the risk being contemplated. That was our certification.

I worry about these young people for whom the only relatively unsupervised space in their lives is the internet. I want to tell parents to back off, to trust their children enough to allow them to make mistakes, even if that results in occasional injuries or frightening moments. 

This is why I've always created opportunities for risky play in my work as an early childhood educator. These 2-5 year olds had both permission and opportunity to engaged in self-selected risk, to climb, to race about, to use hammers and saws and even some power tools, to wrestle and play with water, sand, rocks, and sticks. We even held regular family bonfires so that children could explore what it meant to safely play with fire.

And that's the point. As a cooperative preschool, the parents were right there learning how and when to step back and to step in, how to allow their children to gain confidence and courage, to practice resilience, to explore their limits, and to learn to keep themselves safe. None of this can be learned in an environment of hovering, scolding, and cautioning. I recall a mother once bringing her four-year-old inside to tend to a bloody knee. She deadpanned, "I should sue you," then we laughed because we both knew it was a joke, one that would not have been at all funny in a typical preschool. I'm proud that we offered the opportunity for that boy to risk a raspberry, but even more proud that we offered the opportunity for this parent to experience "normal" parenting.

It's from this experience and experiences like it that I've created my course for early childhood educators entitled Partnering With Parents (see below). We will likely never return to the 60's and 70's when good parenting meant sending your child outside, unsupervised, to learn through playing with the other kids, including risk-taking. But our preschools can be these kinds of places, but only if we actively seek to make their parents our allies.

So often, I hear educators complain about the parents of the children they teach. They don't understand. They helicopter. They complain about every bump or bruise. They really do threaten to sue. They want their babies indoors, learning their letters and if they must go outside, they insist on certifications for everything. 

But I have learned that this really isn't what they want, but rather what our modern world has taught them they should want . . . in the name of safety first. They've been lead to believe that not only is the world more dangerous than it really is, but that their children are incompetent. It's warping our world in ways that are harmful to all of us. Fear and anxiety is no way to go through life and it's the natural consequence of 24/7 supervision.

I hear myself. I sound a bit like one of those old codgers who pines for the good old days, and maybe I am, at least to an extent. Children did get hurt and even died doing stupid things in the 60's and 70's. But at the same time, I hope we can all agree that the pendulum has by now swung too far. I've spent my career advocating for our preschools to become the kind of middle ground in which we allow children the freedom to explore and experiment, even if sometimes that results in risky play. Of course, we still supervise, but with an understanding that if we are to allow our children to learn how to keep themselves safe, sometimes the best time to step in is after the knee is bloody. And the only way we will get there is with the children's parents as our allies.

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Sometimes it seems like the most challenging part of our job is dealing with parents. At the same time, we all know that it takes a village to raise a child. As preschool educators, we don't just educate children, but their families as well. For decades, I've been working in a place that puts the tricornered relationship of child-parent-educator at the center, and over that time I've learned a great deal about how to work with families to create the kind of village every child needs and deserves. I've assembled what I've learned course called Partnering With Parents in which I share my best thinking on how educators can and should make allies of the parents of the children we teach. Click this link to register for the 2025 cohort and to learn more. Discounts are available for groups. Registration closes at the end of this week, so act now!

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!

This is How We Make the Villages Our Children Need

By nature, I consider myself an introvert, so when our daughter was born, I happily stepped into the role of stay-at-home parent. Of course, I looked forward to the "parenting" part, but I equally, and a bit secretly, embraced the "stay-at-home" aspect of the job title. As I held my newborn, I imagined our cozy life, snuggling, puttering around the house, eating snacks, reading storybooks, and playing in the garden. My homebody self imagined a kind of utopia effectively walled-off from the rest of the world where my wife, the extravert, would go off into the world to slay the dragons, while the two of us nested, unmolested, at least for a time, by the stresses of being out in the world.

And it was something like that at first, but among her first sentences were, "Let's go somewhere" and "Let's do something," a clear indication that she was her mother's daughter. I took this to mean that she was asking me for preschool, but when I ran the idea by my wife, she said, "No. She has a stay-at-home parent. Why would we send her off to be raised by strangers if we don't have to?" She had a point, but just in case, I ran the idea of preschool by my mother, who said, "Why would you do that? She has you. Besides, once their gone they're gone. Keep her at home as long as you can." Another compelling argument, but I there was still my mother-in-law, but she too gave it a thumbs down and no wise person defies the three most important women in their life, so it was on me, the introvert, to cobble together the social life our 18-month-old clearly craved.

This primarily involved going to lots of neighborhood playgrounds and other places where young children gathered. One day, I got to chatting with the mother of a son who was only a little older, and I shared my story. She said, "I know how you feel. I'm a stay-at-home parent, but we've enrolled in a cooperative preschool two mornings a week." It turned out that instead of dropping him off, she attended preschool with him. That's all I needed to hear. When I ran this idea by my triumvirate of beloved women, they approved, just so long as we both went.

And so I discovered cooperative schools, places where the families own the school and serve as assistant teachers. For the next three years, we went to school together, and where I got to work alongside a master teacher by the name of Chris David. When it came time for our daughter to move onto kindergarten, Chris urged me to consider staying behind and become a cooperative preschool teacher, and that's when Teacher Tom was born and where I've been for the better part of the past two decades.

Every preschool becomes a community of children, but a cooperative, in a very real sense, becomes a kind of "village" organized around the all-important project of raising children, including parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and caretakers brought together in the context of community. It reminds me as much as anything in the modern world possibly can of the neighborhood in which I grew up, a place where parents sent their children outside to play, confident that they would create their own social lives simply by living amongst the people, both old and young, that we found there. The kind of place where we learn to teach, care for, support, and love all the children, and to, in turn, trust the other adults in that role with our own children. It's not an accident that the parents at Woodland Park are refer to it as "the community" more often than as a school.

As a teacher, I might have valued my cooperative community more than I did as a parent. At any given moment there were 5-10 of these "amateur" teachers with me, bound together by a culture of learning and care that we were creating together day-after-day. I cannot imagine doing this preschool thing any other way, surrounded by parents who are my colleagues, supporters, and allies: a village raising children.

This isn't the experience of most educators. Indeed, too often parents show up in preschool settings as adversaries instead of allies. They show up as "customers" and critics, mettlesome dilettantes, and people whose phone message, "We need to talk," sends our hearts into our throats. Others come off as disinterested and dismissive. This is not how it should be. Parents and educators are natural allies in that we all want what is best for the children, yet we too often find ourselves feeling that parents, at least some of the parents, are in the way or behaving in ways that undermine our good work. They challenge us about such bedrock things like play-based education, discipline, risky play, mess, and a host of other aspects of our professional work, often demanding we do things that we know are not in the best interest of children.

For the past 20 years, I've been working in a place that puts this tri-cornered relationship of child-parent-educator at the center, and over that time I've learned a great deal about how to work with families to create the kind of village every child needs and deserves. I'm proud to announce that I've assembled what I've learned into my fully updated 6-part course called Partnering With Parents in which I share my best thinking on how to make allies of the parents of the children we teach. (Click this link to learn more.)

Most of us don't live in the kind of villages envisioned by the proverb, but that doesn't mean our children don't need them. We may never again be free to send our children out into the neighborhood to play, but we can do the next best thing by making our preschools into places not just for children, but for families. This is how we make the villages our children need. 

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It takes a village to raise a child. As preschool educators, we don't just educate children, but their families as well. For decades, I worked in a place that put the tri-cornered relationship of child-parent-educator at the center, and over that time I learned a great deal about how to work with families to create the kind of village every child needs and deserves. I've assembled what I've learned into a 6-part course called Partnering With Parents in which I share my best thinking on how educators can and should make allies of the parents of the children we teach. The 2025 cohort for this course begins next week. Click this link to register and to learn more. Discounts are available for groups.

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!

When a Parent Says, "We Need to Talk"

"We need to talk."

It's a message from the parent of one of your students -- an email, text, voice mail, or quick word at pickup time. Your heart rises into your throat.

"We need to talk" almost always means that something has gone wrong, and it's going to get worse before it gets better. This parent is angry, sad, or confused. They object to your curriculum. They are worried their child is "falling behind." They want to demand that you do something about this, that, or the other.

We've all been there. Parents and educators are natural allies, but all too often we find ourselves at odds, even though we all want the same thing: happy, well-adjusted children.

Over the years, I've found that the struggle to get on the same page with parents might not be the top-of-mind concern for educators, but when we get down to the bottom line, that's often the real challenge, whether it's over things like learning through play, discipline, risky play, or messy play.

 

“The parents would never let us do that!”

 

“The parents want more academics.”

 

“The parents complain whenever their child gets messy.”

 

“The parents just don’t understand!”

 

My own experience of parents is as colleagues rather than people who demand a “quick meeting.” I’ve spent my entire teaching career in cooperative preschools, where the parents are right there with me in the classroom, serving as assistant teachers. This is the great strength of the cooperative model and through this experience of working shoulder-to-shoulder with parents, day-after-day, I discovered the incredible power of a true partnership with parents.

 

As parents and educators, we both are the children’s “first teachers” (to use the nomenclature of the Reggio-Emilia model), but in our modern world, too often we find ourselves on opposite sides of the table across the divide of “we need to talk.” 

 

How would it change your life as an educator to have a parent community that really understands what play is all about? Where parents fully support your curriculum? Where parents are on the same page about mess, risk, and self-directed learning? How would it change your attitude if the parents in your school always had your back? If you could say one thing to the parents of the children you teach, what would it be? What would you want them to know?

I recently asked my newsletter readers these questions.

Jenny S., the director of a large center, wishes that parents could walk in an educator's shoes for a day. "Have you tried caring for five children under two for even two hours?"

Ramona M wishes that parents understood "normal human development."

"I would really like to see parents understand how the power of connection and attachment that can shape their child's relationships, and how powerful play is their child's life," writes Mary J. "Slow down and be present and you start to see and understand who they are and what is really important to them."

Several educators expressed frustration that parent concerns stand in the way of introducing developmentally appropriate "risky play." As Leslie D. asked, "Is there something I could say to them that allows us to have more freedom with the children and have the parents on board?"

Almost everyone who responded expressed frustrations with unrealistic academic expectations, communication, wishes that parents understood more about early childhood development, and a hope for a better educator-parent-child partnership.

As Ramona M. put it, "It takes a village."

That is the idea behind my fully updated 6-part course Partnering With Parents. If any of this rings true for you, if you're interested in transforming your relationship with the parents of the children in your care, then you might want to check it out. To learn more and to register for the 2025 cohort, click here.

When we work to bring parents closer to the center of what we do, when we communicate clearly, honestly, and in a timely manner, we begin to form the kind of partnerships that help us begin to approach the promise of a village.

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It takes a village to raise a child. As preschool educators, we don't just educate children, but their families as well. For decades, I've been working in a place that puts the tri-cornered relationship of child-parent-educator at the center, and over that time I've learned a great deal about how to work with families to create the kind of village every child needs and deserves. I'm proud to announce that I've assembled what I've learned into a 6-part course called Partnering With Parents in which I share my best thinking on how educators can and should make allies of the parents of the children we teach. Click this link to register and to learn more. Discounts are available for groups. This is the one and only 2025 cohort. Please join us!

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!

Partnering With Parents One Preschool at a Time

Registration is now open for the 2025 cohort for my course Partnering With Parents. Click here to learn more and register!

Polar bear cubs stay with their mothers until they're two and half years old. Dolphin calves need maternal care for 2-3 years. Orangutan infants continue nursing for six years, the longest period of dependence of any species other than humans.

For us, this period during which our survival depends on care and attention from adults is, at minimum 10 years, although in modern society we set the legal age at 18, and for many of us, it extends even longer. 

Some scientists theorize that this is because our species has so much to learn in order to function, but I'm suspicious of that. One of our great prejudices is that we are somehow more intelligent, or that human social life is so much more complex than other species. The more I learn about other species, however -- not just mammals, but reptiles, birds, mollusks, and even plants -- the more I'm convinced that there is no hierarchy when it comes to intelligence or social complexity.

Another theory is that we have a longer period of dependence because we have longer lives: the process of growing up is just stretched out proportionally because we're going to, on average, live seven or eight decades. And it's true that, say, orangutans tend to only live to be 50, but elephants have a similar lifespan to humans and their young only have a 2-3 year period of dependence. There are several species that live for hundreds of years (whales, sharks, clams) with much shorter childhoods, while there are many more that can live for thousands of years (trees, sponges, fungi) with no childhood to speak of. There's even a jellyfish that is biologically immortal, reverting to its polyp state once it reproduces in order to do it all over again. Most of the longest lived species actually have no apparent period of dependence.

Our own period of dependence hasn't always been as long as we make it today. Our daughter was bat mitzvahed at 13, which is the traditional Jewish age of adulthood. Indeed, throughout traditional cultures, 12 or 13 is a common marker between childhood and adulthood, although few of us would think it wise to really stick to that in our modern world. There's no reason that children this age wouldn't be capable of functioning as adults, except for the fact that modern human culture is simply too dangerous to leave them on their own. There are just too many broken adults who want to prey on them. Other species don't have to worry about the predator from within. 

On the other hand, looked at another way, in other long-lived social species, like elephants, whales, and orangutans, one could argue that the period of dependence is never over. They rally to one another's aid throughout their lives. They protect, feed, and care for one another, not because they are parents, but because it's the most important thing their species does: care for one another.

I'm going to assert (without complete knowledge) that humans are the only social species that has forgotten that. As psychologist and researcher Alison Gopnik says, caring for the young is the principle purpose of every civilization. I would extend that to all people, not just the young. And with humans, as with other species, even those with relatively short lifespans, the responsibility is too much for one or two adults. It truly does, as the African proverb has it, "take a village to raise a child."

Over the past couple of centuries, humans, and especially those of us living in Eurocentric cultures have moved young children farther and farther from the center of society, until we today find them growing up in virtual isolation from the rest of the world. From a young age, we wall them off into "pink collar ghettos" to spend their days in crowds of like-aged colleagues in the care of professional caretakers and educators. And because most people outside those walls have little or no regular interaction with young people, their needs are rarely considered. Indeed, young children are forbidden or frowned upon in much of the modern world. As a corrective for this, I've always been an advocate for "place based learning," which means taking children out into their world: walking the neighborhood, visiting local businesses and institutions, traveling around by bus and other forms of mass transit.

I'm always struck by how work-a-day adults react to finding children in their lives. Make no mistake, many are delighted to suddenly find themselves, say, surrounded by excited four-year-olds on their morning commute. But many more move away. They draw their shoulders to their ears and scowl in judgement. These children, these young humans, these fellow humans, are viewed as loud, disgusting, ignorant intruders.

I can't help but compare this situation to that of other "outsider" populations who have historically been ghettoized. They have a right to exist, just not where I am. Am I exaggerating? Maybe a little, but it's something we need to think about. When we isolate children from society, we are likewise isolating society from children, which means we are robbing ourselves of the caring-and-being-cared-for give-and-take that characterizes every other long-lived animal culture. I can think of no better explanation for the breakdown of our "village." I can think of no better explanation for the intensity of our political divisions, for school shootings, for our mental health crisis, for the general rudeness and incivility that is making cynics of us all.

On one preschool field trip, we were transferring onto Seattle's Link Light Rail at the Westlake station in the heart of downtown, a place where children are rare during the workweek. As we entered the station, a man stood leaning against a wall smoking a cigarette. One of the kids said, loudly enough for the man to hear, "Look Teacher Tom, that man is making a bad choice!" The smoker stopped mid-puff, dropped his cigarette onto the pavement, and crushed it out with his heel, saying, "You're right. It is a bad choice." And then, when he noticed the kids were all now peering at the butt he'd dropped, he picked it up and tossed it in a trash can. Then the man said, "Thank you."

I've always known that being with young children makes me a better person, if only because I feel compelled to role model the behaviors that I want them to see as normal. I imagine that this man, in the presence of children, found it not just easier, but imperative to make "good choices."

Being in the company of young children tends to make adults more creative, more likely to try new things, more accepting of others, more playful, and less selfish. These are all things we could use more of in the world. This too is part of the power of the village.

We might not be able to change the world, but we can, today, begin changing it for the children in our care by opening the doors of our "ghettos." By both getting out there in the world and also by bringing others into our settings, especially their parents and extended families. Our world may never be the village we need, but our preschools can be exactly that, communities based on the knowledge of every other long-lived species: it takes a village. 

It might sound like a stretch, it might sound neigh impossible to engage the parents of the children we teach in this way, but not only do I know it's possible, I know it's the only antidote to cynicism. It takes a village to raise a child. It also takes children to raise a village. 

If this sounds like something you want to pursue more deeply, consider registering for my course, Partnering with Parents (see below). Perhaps we can change the world one preschool at a time.

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If you're interested in learning about what you can do, right now, to create a learning village that parents will wholeheartedly support, I've developed this 6-part course called Partnering With Parents. As preschool educators, we don't just educate children, but their families as well. For decades, I've worked in a place that puts the tri-cornered relationship of child-parent-educator at the center, and over that time I've learned a great deal about how to work with families to create the kind of village every child needs and deserves. How would it be to have parents show up as allies? Click this link to register and to learn more. Discounts are available for groups.

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!

The Power of Partnership With Parents

Many hands make light work. ~John Heywood

This how the Woodland Park Cooperative School does Halloween, the highest of our high holidays, the others, in calendrical order being MLK Day, Chinese New Year, and Valentine's Day.

Our morning school becomes a night (okay, early evening) school. We spend the two weeks leading up to the big night discussing our costumes and making decorations. We then all dress up in those costumes, gather at the school in the evening with tons of food, including too many sweets, and when I say "we all," I mean our entire community that grows to 100 or more children when one includes older siblings and alumni, and at least as many adults. It's an event that grew bigger each year. The center of the festivities took place in what we call the Cloud Room, the Fremont Baptist Church's social hall, a room with a stage and one whole wall lined with mirrors. I set up the classroom simply, with crayons, play dough, what we call "the crazy floor" (large foam blocks interspersed randomly under gym mats), and corn starch packing pellets in the sensory table. The outdoor classroom is open as well.

The parents are a big part of making this evening work, pitching in with their creativity and zeal. One year, for instance, Elijah's mom Unique put together a Halloween themed photo "booth," with small straw bales and a spooky back drop. Devrim's mom Funda set up a jack-o-lantern vomiting guacamole. Elizabeth's mom Susan organized a silent auction that evolved over the years into an important fundraiser for our school: local businesses, sports teams, and other organizations donated nice items, but the highlights were always the handmade, personal items and one-of-a-kind experiences that can only come from our community. Henry's family, for instance, would always offer an airport shuttle service complete with coffee. Every family contributes something.

Grandmas, grandpas and close family friends join us. More rarely seen spouses turn up, most in costume. And I must say that this is one of the coolest aspects of our annual party: there is a lot of friendly peer pressure to get the adults to at least make a gesture toward a costume. The kids definitely appreciate this. It raises the importance of this night for them when even the adults who never dress up are in costume. 

What do we do? We arrive, talk about our costumes, eat food, trash the classroom, take a lot of pictures, get a little overwhelmed, calm down outside, plunge back in, sneak an extra cupcake, and generally get carried away by the night. And we go home exhausted. You know, like what always happens at a good party. In the following days, children tell me, conspiratorially, "I had four sweets," or earnestly, "It was too loud," or eagerly, "Let's do it again." We spend the week after rehashing the event, talking about the moments when we were excited or frightened or sad or angry. We discuss what the "big kids" did or what the "little kids" did and, inspired, begin to plan our costumes for next year.

The highlight for me, the moment I live for, my absolutely most shining moment, is leading circle time for our entire community. I typically wore my pink bunny costume, a beautifully sewn thing, with gray "fir" around the cuffs and the paisley ears. I'm very fond of that costume, but it's hot in the best of times, a feature that is compounded by being in a tightly packed room. I sit on the stage and call the children together. I can't describe how magnificent it is to look into the faces of these children I know and, raising my gaze to look just beyond them, the faces of the families who make up the totality of who we are.

We sing "Roll That Pumpkin Down to Town," and "Itsy Bitsy Spider." We do a few of our anthemic felt board songs and chants, altered to honor the holiday. We sing "If You're Happy and You Know It" using the jack-o-lanterns we carved during the week to represent "happy," "sad," "angry," "surprised," "silly," and "pirate" (a recognized emotion in our school) as props. I love nothing more than catching the eyes of alumni students who are now first or second graders, singing lustily along.

I am, by the end, in a full-on sweat, red-faced and wishing I were wearing something more lightweight.

After the "show," the place is, as previously mentioned, trashed. My first thought is always that this was going to take hours to set back in order.

I want the families to feel free to pack their tired kids off to bed, so think of tidying up as my job, but the rest of the community doesn't see it that way. As the party winds down, I start by picking up one thing and putting it back where it belongs. Then another. Soon, without anything being said, a parent will join me, scooping corn starch pellets from the floor back into the sensory table, for instance. In another corner of the room another parent will put away the play dough. Another tidies up the art table. Grandparents and friends pitch in. Before five minutes has passed, a dozen adults and at least as many kids are, again without comment or instruction, putting things away, sweeping, organizing. Those hours of work are compressed into 10 minutes through the power of many hands.

When I return to the Cloud Room, a similar thing has happened in there: the decorations are down, the tables and chairs are stashed away, the floor is swept, and the garbage bags are carried to the dumpster. Same with the kitchen where we held the silent auction and the kindergarten room. Even the outdoor classroom is re-set and ready for the following day.

I'm always the last to leave. As I stand in our empty space, lights off, it's hard to believe that the evening has happened, that only moments before we were laughing, feasting, posing, sweating, singing, and dancing together, all of us, celebrating the magic of many hands. And, as I stand there, dressed in street clothes for my bus ride home, I realize that this is what we celebrate every day at our little cooperative preschool.

This is the power of true partnership with parents.

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If you're interested in learning more about creating a learning village that parents will wholeheartedly support, I've developed this 6-part course called Partnering With Parents. As preschool educators, we don't just educate children, but their families as well. For over two decades 20 years, I worked in a place that puts the tri-cornered relationship of child-parent-educator at the center, and over that time I've learned a great deal about how to work with families to create the kind of village every child needs and deserves. How would it be to have parents show up as allies? Click this link to learn more and get on the waitlist. Discounts are available for groups.

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!