Something To Do With Walls And Ceilings

Earlier this year the mother of a 5-year-old, a boy with several years of preschool already under his belt, was enthusiastic about one of his paintings, "I think this is Henry's first actual painting! He never paints. I really want to save it." 

One of the challenges of making art outdoors is that wind or rain can it make it difficult to work with paper of any kind. We've found that cardboard, tag board, watercolor paper, and fabric often make better options.

We try to save every painting, of course, but it's true that some of them don't make it home. We're actually pretty good about it when it comes to art made indoors where we have adequate accommodations for stashing things as they dry, although a few still wind up mangled, stuck together, or are otherwise rendered good only for the recycling bin. 

For this project, we used powdered tempera paint, mixed with less than the normal about of water so that it forms a kind of paste. We then use masonry and other sturdy tools to apply it.

It's the art made outdoors where we really struggle. We probably should invest in some sort of shelving system for the purpose, but our current method is to hang the wet pieces with cloths pins from a piece of rope tied between the two stanchions that support our retractable canopy. When that gets full we have a couple of folding racks, originally intended for hanging laundry, that we can bring outside.

Since we're a bit challenged when it comes to "saving" art made outdoors, communal art projects like this one are a good way to go. It leaves us with only one painting to save, if we even want to save it. Sometimes these big pieces, when the children are done, go straight into the recycling bin.

That's all well and good, but outside is where the weather is and it doesn't take much overnight wind or rain to deface someone's masterpiece. Henry's mother was referring to a painting made outdoors, so she was smart to bring it to my attention.

It's actually hard to believe, but up until a couple years ago, we rarely, if ever, made art outdoors. One of the most striking aspects of regularly taking it outside, however, is that kids, like Henry, who aren't typically big fans of our art projects, will often pick up brushes when the invitation is made without walls or ceilings. I don't know why, but I'm not the only one who's observed this phenomenon. Both our indoor and outdoor art areas have tables and chairs, we do many of the same projects, and we take the same pedagogical approach, yet there are many kids who give art a wide berth when indoors, while falling on it outdoors. 

Like I said, I don't know why, but I suspect it has something to do with walls and ceilings.

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"Just Right" Puzzles

At one level, puzzles appear in an emergent play-based curriculum as an anomaly, because, as everyone knows, even the youngest two-year-olds, there is a "right way" to work a puzzle.

I'm sure there are "puzzles" out there that are exceptions to this assertion, but typical puzzles, well-considered traditional puzzles, have but a single solution. That's the point of them. I know this is true because children tell me so. Often (okay, most of the time) when I sit down to work a puzzle in the classroom I start by saying, "I'm going to teach you how to do this puzzle," then set about quickly and assertively putting all the pieces in the wrong spots.

"No, Teacher Tom!"

"Not like that!"

"I'll show you the right way."

The two-year-olds might correct me non-verbally, by simply moving the pieces into their proper spots, but they do correct me.

Not every kid enjoys puzzles, some even express an outright animosity toward them, but most kids at one time or another are attracted to creating order from the chaos. Particularly impressive to me are the children who work diligently to discover the "right way," then immediately dismantle it and start over, as if proving their work. Often a child will spend a focused half hour re-working the same puzzle. Others will approach an entire collection of puzzles that way, such as the ones depicted in the photographs here, methodically going one at a time, moving from one puzzle to the next, discovering the "right way" over and over. 

When this kind of focused puzzling is happening, I know we're working with "just right" puzzles, ones that are not too far over their heads (which usually winds up in abandonment or some version of scattering) or too simplistic (which usually winds up with kids imitating me in assembling them incorrectly on purpose). Children will often say, "I need help." When they do, I always answer, "I'll help you," but then dilly-dally a bit, giving them an opportunity to overcome, on their own, whatever obstacle they're facing. Even better is when a classmate jumps in ahead of me to lend a hand: "I can help you." Whatever the case, if by the time I get there, my help is no longer needed, it's another sure sign that we're working with "just right" puzzles.

As a lifelong puzzler, a person who keeps a giant book of New York Times crosswords on my bedside table, I know the challenge of the attempt, the satisfaction of completion, and the desire to start all over again the moment I'm done.

But what I love most is working a puzzle with others; say, spreading the pieces of a huge jigsaw on the dining room table and spending a weekend, off and on, piece by piece, assembling it with family and friends. More often that not, at school this too is an indication that we are working with "just right" puzzles: when the children elect to work together, sharing the challenge of discovering the "right way."

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Natural Teachers

People have called me a "natural teacher." I like the sound of it. I even sense the truth of the statement, at least insofar as I can't imagine doing anything else with my days. I hold a degree in journalism, not education. In fact, I've only taken a handful of ed classes. Instead, I've spent thousands of hours working with children of all ages, stretching back to my days as a baseball coach during my teen and early adult years. And yes, it feels natural. It always has.

I had reason recently to reflect on my first day as "head coach" of a team of first and second graders. I was 16-years-old. I'd already, the summer before, served as an assistant coach to a team of preschoolers (which hadn't been baseball so much as a big daily play date with a baseball theme), but this was the first time I was on my own with a team. I was nervous, of course, but only before I'd opened my mouth for the first time. I sent them to run some laps, then we re-convened for some warm up exercises before launching into baseball skills. It was my first 9-5 job, one during which I coached teams of kids from 5-14, boys and girls, and it was glorious. I did it for 4 summers all told: outdoors, all day, playing baseball with kids. It was my first job and, I'm afraid, it ruined me for every "real" job I tried until I landed on my current one.

In a way it saddens me to realize that I wasted the next couple decades figuring out that this is where I belong, playing with children, thinking with children, learning with children. It's not everyone who falls into their perfect niche right from the start, but I was too young and inexperienced, and growing up in a time when early childhood (heck, teaching in general) wasn't considered a "proper" option for a young man. I just couldn't see it. I thought that the sense of joy came from playing baseball all day long, not the kids.

I do, of course, look back over the path I've taken and, to steal from the Grateful Dead, "I see now how everything leads up to this day." All the pieces fell into place, including those dark years during which I worked as a PR flack for corporate interests, to guide me to where I am today. Knowing for certain what you don't want to do is important too, I guess.

I reckon there are a lot of us in this profession who are natural teachers. In fact, I can't think of a single teacher I know personally who doesn't fall into this category. Admittedly, this is could be an aspect of the progressive play-based bubble in which I live. I imagine there may be some of us who just "fell into it," or who somehow felt there was no other choice. Maybe there are even some who are in it for the money. And perhaps there is such thing as a "manufactured" teacher, like the kind the corporate education reformers envision, but I just can't imagine they last for very long in a career that demands your whole self every day.

So that begs the question, what is a natural teacher? It certainly has nothing to do with teaching style, because we're all over the place when it comes to that. Much of what I do in the classroom derives from those years as a coach. There's a lot of, "Come on, everybody!" and "Let's all go check out the workbench!" You know, rallying large contingents of kids into common efforts, teamwork, cooperation. It tends to be loud. I tolerate more rowdiness than many teachers. But I know plenty of natural teachers whose classrooms aren't like this at all. And it's not really about pedagogy either: there are wonderful natural teachers working through all kinds of approaches, methodologies, and techniques, including not-approaches, not-methodologies, and not-techniques. I also don't think it has much to do with the creativity of the activities we choose, our classroom schedules, or any of the other superficial things we fret over on a daily basis.

No, you find natural teachers everywhere, creating all kinds of thinking communities. The common thread, however, the thing that ties us together, is that each of us, in our own way, has learned how to connect with children, both as individuals and as a community.

It begins with warmth. I love the children that pass my way, and in each interaction I try to find a way to express that unconditional acceptance to them. Physically that involves eye contact, smiling, active listening, and gentle touching. Emotionally that means setting my own petty feelings to the side, being with them of course, but not being subject to them, wiping my own emotional slate as clean as humanly possible, leaving a space in which I can understand the feelings of another untainted by my own. And spiritually it is about stillness; being present. Of all the things I do to express warmth, it's this stillness that is most vital. I don't always succeed, but this is what I'm after each time I drop to my knees and get face-to-face with a child.

This is the greatest gift we can give children because it's only when they know they are loved and accepted that they can fully engage with the world around them, without reservation and without fear.

Secondly, a natural teacher, I think, is someone who knows that she is teaching fully formed human beings. I will not be your master, nor will I be your servant. Perhaps at times I will be your guide, just as there will be times when you are mine. It's a stance that says, you are competent and respected; that you have the same rights and, indeed, responsibilities as the rest of us. It's an approach toward children that acknowledges that the most important things children are learning (as opposed to mere academics) are things that we adults continue to learn throughout our lives, and that we have no lock on profundity or expertise.

Thirdly, a natural teacher does not confuse her role with leadership. There are times, of course, when the teacher leads, but more important are those times when we let the children take over, when we understand that our role is to facilitate, to create the forum in which play and thinking takes place, but not to steer or coral or otherwise compel the children in this direction or that. One of the most common responses from people who learn that I'm a preschool teacher is, "I don't know how you do it." This is almost always said by those with managerial type jobs in which they are responsible for teams of adults. They reflect on how hard it is to get adults to do what they want, and imagine it is only that much harder to manage a bunch of little kids. A natural teacher understands that it's not about getting the children to do what she wants, but rather to help them figure out how to do what they want.

And finally, it seems, a natural teacher is one that constantly strives to balance the needs and desires of the many with the needs and desires of the few. For me, this is where my coaching background plays it's most significant role. That this is the work of everyone, all the time, throughout our lives, at least if we believe in self-governance, makes it perhaps the most important thing we do.

Implied in the notion of a "natural teacher," I think, is the idea that we are born this way, but I think that is wrong. Natural teachers are those of us who through our lives encountered people who were able to express warmth to us, who respected us and held us competent, who acknowledged us as equals without bossing or serving us, and helped us see that even as individuals our destiny is always tied to our community of peers.

Natural teachers are the product of natural teachers, those that connect with us and make us taller by letting us stand upon their shoulders.

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What We Did On The Swings In The Weather

It was quite cold and rainy during the week leading up to our holiday break. Which means we played in it. 

(I have to say that I'm sick to tears with children's books that depict glum children behind rain streaked windows who are "stuck" inside because of the weather. If I see another article with tips for parents seeking ways for their children to "blow off steam" without going outdoors, I think I'll scream. I might just go off on the next person who describes weather short of a hurricane as "nasty." And I'm liable to run down the next person who calls me "brave" for bicycle commuting on a stormy day.

Buy some rain gear, for crying out loud. Pull on the longies. Wear a hat and some gloves. It's just water. It's just wind. It's just temperature. It's just weather!

Sorry about that, but it's a rant that's been building up . . .)

As I was saying, we were out playing in the cold rain and one of the most fun things to do in that kind of weather is dodge in and out of shelter, which is why I broke out one of our camping tents. Our 5's class was particularly attracted to it, often managing to sardine up to 10 kids into this two-person tent, bulging the sides until it looked like a giant blue and white beanbag chair stuffed with kittens. 

After awhile, the kids realized they could easily move the tent to wherever they wanted and where they wanted it was under the swing set.

(I have to say I'm sick to tears of hearing about how swing sets are disappearing from playgrounds across the country because they've been deemed "too dangerous." If I have to read another long list of adult-imposed rules about proper swinging, I think I'll scream. I might just go off on the next person who proposes helmets or seat belts. And I'm liable to accidentally-on-purpose knock over the next person who calls us "brave" for letting the kids use the swing set for things other than mere swinging . . . Sorry, that's another one that's been building up . . .)

So then they started gathering up some of the larger loose parts we have around the outdoor classroom, specifically our wooden planks, but also our plastic pipes, caution cones, stick ponies, and slowly rotting wooden blocks.

And they began to build together, creating something that some were calling a "castle," while others were saying, "fort." In any event, they were using it as a particularly wobbly, teeter-y, swingy, ad hoc climbing apparatus, one that clearly would never be permitted in a public park playground.

I stood with William's dad John, reminiscing about how we used to play as boys. He didn't think my pictures could possibly capture the incredible cooperative, risky, constructive, dramatic play we were witnessing. 

He's right, they don't come close, but if you close your eyes and remember what it was like to play with your friends in the weather, whatever weather, you might just capture it for yourself.

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Have Some Math, Kids, It's Good For You

Like most preschools in the US, we have a large box of what are usually called "counting bears." They come in three sizes that the kids most commonly refer to as "mommies," "daddies," and "babies." Whether the mommies or daddies are represented by the largest size is a matter for debate. They also traditionally come in four colors -- the primaries, plus green -- although I know there are other colors out there. Otherwise they're all the same.

No one ever walks into the classroom and enthuses about them like they do when we have our trains or dinosaurs out, so I wouldn't say they're popular playthings, although they always get plenty of use, the way bottle caps or wine corks or anything of which we have "a lot" find their way into the children's play often in the form of stand-ins or markers or tools. 

I've seen them used as families or princesses or superheroes; they're sometimes employed as currency or board game pawns or teddy-shaped pegs to be inserted into round holes; all together in their box, they're a sensory item for hands and ears, for dumping, pouring, gather and scooping; we use them as obstacles to jump over, step through, and tip toe around. They are the perfect object in a game of knock-them-down-and-pick-them-up-again.

They call them "counting bears" because they're marketed as "pre-math" tools for teachers and parents who don't know that there is no such thing. I guess they're suggesting that math is properly something you do with symbols on paper, but what preschool kids naturally do with these bears is the real math: counting, sorting, weighing, and making patterns from them. 

They sell all sorts of things to go with these bears, I guess by way of making them more "hard core pre-math." We have, for instance, a set of cards that present illustrations of bears in various types of sequences. The idea, as near as I can figure, is for teachers to have young children match the patterns bear-for-bear, considering size and color, then to continue the sequence they've discovered beyond the end of the card. Since, as a teacher, I'm suspicious of any description of teaching in which part of the concept is to "have" the children do this or that, I sometimes put the cards on a table along with the bears as an invitation. Sometimes a child or two will take it on in "the right way," but usually the cards remain untouched while the bears move off to more interesting activities.

I know that there are some real math gourmets out there, but most of us really don't care to sit down at a table at which math as the only course. It's not that we don't like math, but it's like broccoli or beans; it's something best served on the side, as an accompaniment, to be used to enhance and balance the rest of our meal, not be the meal. In the early years, we're pretty good, I think, about integrating math into our casseroles, salads, and soups, but as kids move up through our schools, more and more of what passes for math education is of the "Here, have some of this math, kids, it's good for you" variety. This is made only worse by the drive to evaluate education through the lazy man's means of standardized testing.

So this doesn't mean we don't do the counting, sorting, weighing, and patterning at Woodland Park, it's just that it emerges, as math always does for most of us in the real world beyond schools, as a means to an end, a tool, a way to use hard logic to solve a problem or take advantage of an opportunity. It's the symbols on paper that are abstractions, not these bears. What we do in preschool is math. That other stuff they're doing in middle school is more properly called post-math. What we do with these bears is called play: dramatic play, constructive play, manipulative play, sensory play, art play, cooperative play, science play, and yes, math play. 

Too many people think that play is the dessert, when, in fact, it's the recipe for a well-balanced meal . . . And yes, I've seen our counting bears served as food, usually to those ever-popular dinosaurs.

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A Eureka Fest

On the last night of 2012, when told I am a preschool teacher, a fellow celebrator, someone genuinely interested, asked me, "Really? What's your philosophy? Montessori? Regio?" It was kind of a holiday miracle: no one outside of this little corner of the internet ever asks that question. The standard cocktail party response to finding yourself trapped in a conversation with a preschool teacher is, "Oh, that must be fun!" or "I don't know how you do it."

I answered by praising the models she'd mentioned, then went on to say all the key words and phrases: "play based," "progressive," "child-directed," "emergent," "cooperative," "inquiry." I've given more concise answers in the past, but it was New Years Eve, I was feeling expansive, and I had a receptive audience. I finished, as I usually do, however, by saying, "I really don't think I have a philosophy. There are a lot of good ideas. I cherry pick the ones that I think will work for the kids, their parents, and me, try them out, then use the blog to reflect on how it goes."

She then said she would check out the blog. Being a bit of a narcissist, I assumed she meant this morning, so here's a post about my philosophy:

You can't have enough baby food jars around a preschool, which is pretty awesome considering they're apparently an endless resource around here. They're compact, made from thick glass, and come with lids. At any given moment we keep a stash in the storage room just waiting to be called into play. It was a few days before the holiday break, we'd been using a lot of glitter, and I'd been seeing a lot of adult-centered ideas for homemade snow globes made in jars. What would a child-directed version of this look like?

The only way to find out is to gather up the baby food jars, bowls of glitter, small beads, spoons, and water, put it all on the work bench, and see what happens. At the last minute I decided to also make a gallon jug of vegetable oil available. This was a fateful decision as it turns out.

There are always kids who fall on anything that involves mixing, which is how the first wave of kids approached the materials: filling their jars, stirring, spilling, washing their hands, then doing it again, all the while getting a nice, thin coating of oil on everything, including their winter coats, which were showing large, greasy, ever-expanding spots. Slippery hands, naturally, made getting lids on the jars a particular challenge. 

Some of the kids never really moved on from the mixing stage, filling jar after jar, while others began to play with what we were calling their "glitter shakers." Then a strange and unexpected thing happened. The kids who had used only water found that when they shook their jars the glitter and beads swirled around for a few seconds then settled to the bottom. However, the kids who used both oil and water discovered that the oil entrapped the glitter, forming glitter blobs that really didn't sink or float, but rather hung about in the water. They broke apart when you shook the jars, but then quickly reformed when you stopped, some floating, some sinking. (I reckon this is part of how oil spill clean up is supposed to work, right?)

Whatever the case, every time I circled near the work bench kids ran up to me, shouting, "Look at this!" and "Look what's happening!" and "Look what I made!" It was a Eureka Fest, with each kid, in turn, seeing something in their jar that they'd never seen before, recognizing it as something new under their own personal sun, then turning to the other people to talk about it.

Of course, many of us also discovered what happens when you shake a baby food jar full of glitter, water, and oil with a lid that's not screwed on correctly, but, you know, that's a thing to learn about too.

Later that evening, I was at one of our family's homes for one of our holiday social/parent ed functions. On the kitchen counter, I spied one of the glitter shakers that apparently made it home intact, there on the counter amidst other holiday decorations. I guess we'd managed to make holiday "snow globes" after all. 

My "philosophy" is in there somewhere.

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