Do-It-Yourself

I hope you'll indulge me with some thoughts surrounding the impending release of my book, Teacher Tom's First Book.

This blog has always been a do-it-yourself endeavor. I blog on a free platform using one of the most basic off-the-shelf designs. I accept no advertising. I only endorse products in which I genuinely believe. To me DIY is all about integrity and that's something I've always strived to maintain. I might make mistakes, but I'd rather they be mine than finding myself at the mercy of the mistakes of others. I'm proud that this book is similarly DIY. I've been writing almost daily here since 2009. Over that time I've been approached by publishers and agents of various sorts and, perhaps regrettably, I've responded with some version of, "That sounds like a lot of work," which effectively ended the conversations.

About a year ago, however, responding to frequent reader prompts along the lines of, "When are you writing a book?" I began to explore the idea of sucking it up to do the work. I quickly recognized that I wanted to continue doing it myself. My publisher and partner, Peanut Butter Publishing, is owned by Elliott Wolf, a man I've known as a friend for over 30 years. He's been wanting me to write a book since I first met him. He too is a man whose professional life is a testament to DIY.

So that's what we're doing here: Elliott and myself, with a big assist from my wife Jennifer, are presenting this book to the world. I didn't think I'd be this excited about it.

Right now, the only place you can buy the book is our website (North America) or via my friends at Inspired EC in Australia. (We will figure out how to ship to other countries in the coming days.) I hope you understand why we're doing it this way. Retailers like Amazon take a huge cut. I reckon that some day the book will available from other sources, but for now I want people to deal as directly as possible with Elliott and me. That's the kind of blog I've had and it's the kind of book I want to sell. We won't do it perfectly, but no one ever does.

I feel good about Teacher Tom's First Book because I am confident that those who buy it are fully aware of what they are buying. After all, I've been giving this stuff away for nearly a decade. I tried to think of it as a kind of "best of" collection. I hope to write a second book. And a third. And even if you don't buy the book, you'll still continue to get my best efforts day after day right here on the blog.

I've been a reluctant author, but now that I am one, I'm eager to see where it goes. People have liked my blog for a long time: I have faith that people will like the book. But nevertheless, like all DIY projects, it's sink or swim, those are the options, and that's what I like most about doing it myself.

Thank you for indulging 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!

-->

Falling Down And Getting Up

As the two-year-old boy tried to walk up a short, sand-dusted concrete slope, his feet slipped from beneath him. He fell forward onto the concrete. I saw it happen. He took a moment, still prone, to look around as if deciding if he was going to cry. When he saw me looking his way, his face wrinkled into a look of anguish and he let it out.

I walked to him. I usually walk in circumstances like this for the same reason I strive to maintain a calm expression: running conveys panic and the last thing I want to do is compound his pain with fear. Taking a seat on the ground beside him, I said, "You fell." Putting a hand on his back, I said, "I came to be with you."

When he cried louder, I asked, "Did you hurt your hands?"

He shook his head. I left some silence for him to fill with the details he wanted to share, but instead he filled it with crying.

"Did you hurt your tummy?"

He shook his head.

"Did you hurt your chin?"

This time he nodded, still crying.

I saw no mark on his chin, "It's not bleeding, but I can get you a bandaid."

He shook his head.

Another two-year-old boy had also seen it happen. He had joined us, looking from me to his classmate throughout the exchange. When I left more silence, this boy decided to fill it, almost as if showing me the proper formula, bending down and asking, "Are you okay?" This is what adults say to a fallen child, a phrase I've struck from my own lexicon figuring that an injured child will let me know soon enough if he's hurt without my planting of the idea with that question. In this moment, however, from a two-year-old's lips, I heard it as a courtesy, like saying "Please," "Thank you," and "How are you?"

He still cried, but not with the intensity of before, notching it down to a breathy, moaning, head up, his fingers tracing paths in the dusting of sand that had been his undoing.

Yet another two-year-old boy joined us. He had not seen what had happened, and asked me, "Why is he crying?"

I replied, "He fell and hurt his chin."

"I'm a doctor."

I asked the boy who had fallen, "Do you need a doctor?"

He shook his head. There were three of us now in a circle around our friend who was winding down his cry, finishing it.

The boy who had asked "Are you okay?" took what the older kids sometimes call "the easy way" up the short slope, a path in the dirt that circumvents the concrete part, intending, I thought, to go about his play. Perhaps that had been the plan, but he stopped and turned to check on his friend, saying once more, "Are you okay?"

This time his friend nodded. His cry had become a soft whimper. I said, "You're not crying now." He didn't respond. His fingers fiddled with the sand until they found a twig which he bent and twisted. I had been sitting beside him. I said, "I'm going to get up now," which I did. I had a vague idea that I was role modeling a possible next step for him, but he didn't immediately follow my lead. Instead, my place was taken by the doctor who sat, as I had done, silently beside him. We're always role modeling, but we can't pick what they will chose to imitate -- or even who will do the imitating.

I kept an eye on the situation from a few feet away. There was some conversation between the boys, but I couldn't hear it. The boy who had taken the easy way up, then climbed to the top of the concrete slide and slid down before circling back to the scene of the fall.

By now, the boy who had fallen had completely finished his cry and was on his feet. There was more discussion amongst the three boys that I didn't hear, but judging from the body language, I'm guessing it was either about the fall or about how to best navigate the short, sand-dusted slope. Then, the two boys who had come to their friend's aid, ascended via the easy way. The boy who had fallen, however, turned to the concrete slope. His boot slipped a bit, but this time he made it without injury. He then ran back down and tried it again, then again, four times in all before he moved on.

(If you are interested in pre-ordering Teacher Tom's First book, click here if you are in North America. If you are in Australia, click here. For the time being, those of you who live in New Zealand can email your order to Resources@inspiredec.com. If you live elsewhere, please bear with us, we're still figuring it out.)

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!

-->

So Overwhelming Was Their Love

There are few things more fun, I guess, than shoving a toy T-Rex toward a friend and roaring. Among those few things is several friends holding toy T-Rexs, shoving, roaring, shrieking in mock horror, and either running away or chasing as one's personality dictates.

This was what a handful of three and four-year-olds where exploring yesterday morning. The challenge, of course, was that these same kids, only a few months ago agreed to the classroom rules, "No running inside" (a rule agreed upon when a pair of these very kids ran headlong into one another while rounding a blind corner) and "No yelling inside" (a rule agree upon in the aftermath of one classmate discovering the high pitched squeal). These are rules that emerged from the children and that were agreed upon, by consensus, earlier in the year. As the de facto executive charge with carrying out their legislative intent, I was regularly saying things like, "I want to remind you that you all agreed no running inside," and "That was loud. Remember, we all agreed no yelling indoors."

Each time I spoke with the kids they looked toward the list of rules we've posted on the wall. They aren't reading yet, of course, but they treat those rules as sacred documents, which they are, often referring to them among themselves. Then for several minutes they roared more softly and ran in slow motion. It tended to stick for about 10 minutes before they required another reminder.

Next year, as four and five year olds, these kids will start their school days outdoors on our state-of-the-art playground, but for now they spend their first hour or so inside, before going outside for the second part of their day together. This is the way we've always done it with this class, which I know isn't necessarily a good reason for continuing to do something. It's a morning class and the thought is to be inside during the coldest, darkest part of the day, especially during the winter months, then bust outside as things warm up a little. I've rarely had cause to reconsider this schedule, but yesterday I realized that it may be time for a change.

The reason the older kids start outdoors, aside from the fact that they're a class with an afternoon starting time and weather conditions tend to be as good as they're going to get, is that I long ago discovered that this is the age at which children have generally turned fully toward one another. Indeed, if the two and three-year-olds orient toward the stuff, the songs, and Teacher Tom (and the other adults), four and five-olds come to school for one reason and one reason only: to play with other four and five-year-olds. They often ignore me as they arrive; there are hugs, squeals, impromptu sprints, and even wrestling as they arrive. No one loves another person more than four and five-year-olds and each meeting, each day, is like a reunion of long lost lovers. The rest of the world recedes as they greet one another with the fullness of their beings, a daily inspiration to me. It would be like pushing water uphill to force them into indoor behavior, even behavior to which they've all agreed, during what I sometimes refer to as our "convening time." There are no planned activities or invitations. I tend to sit on the sidelines, perhaps calling out a greeting as they pass through the gate, but that's about it because there simply is nothing else for me to do until they've sufficiently said "Hello," which takes a minimum of 30 minutes, but usually longer.

Yesterday morning as I once again reminded the kids of their sacred agreements, I realized that a critical mass of our younger class had reached this developmental stage of loving one's friends to the point of bursting. It makes sense, of course, most of them are four by now. Those roaring dinosaurs are simply a way of greeting one another after the too long separation of a night or a weekend. We only have two more weeks of school, so I'm unlikely to change up their established routine at this point, but looking back I can see that they've been "requesting" an outdoor convening time since at least our Spring Break. This is an insight that will cause me to flip-flop the schedule after Spring Break in future years.

Yesterday afternoon, one of our older boys arrived about an hour late, getting there just as we were heading indoors. As the rest of kids raised their hands and shared their stories, he wrestled with a buddy who he had not seen for more than a week. It was literally impossible for them to keep their hands off one another, so overwhelming was their love for one another, so strong their need to reconnect after all that time.

(If you're interested in pre-ordering Teacher Tom's First Book, click here for North America, and click here for Australia or New Zealand. We are still figuring out how to make pre-orders work from other parts of the world. Please bear with 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!

-->

Teacher Tom's First Book

As many of you already know, I've been working on a book these last many months. Indeed, if it hadn't been for encouragement from readers, there's no way I'd have done it. This morning I'm happy to announce that our website has gone live and while the book itself, Teacher Tom's First Book, is still a few weeks away from being available to thumb through, we're taking pre-orders now. Here's the link if you're interested. (If you are in Australia, click here. For the time being, those of you in New Zealand can place a pre-order by emailing Resources@inspiredec.com. We expect to be able to take pre-orders from Europe and Asia by early next week, please bear with us.)

When I was a younger man, I really, really wanted to publish a book, although back then I was determined that it would be a novel. In fact, somewhere on my hard drive there are five novel length manuscripts, none of which will ever see the light of day. I hold a degree in journalism, but the novel was my gold standard.

I spent many years in business, working in communications, public relations and whatnot, but then broke free and managed to work as a freelance writer for the next dozen or so years. Always in the back of my mind was the idea of a book, but that's not what anyone apparently wanted to pay me to do. I got plenty of work as a copywriter, journalist, editor and other kinds of writing, but for me a book meant fiction and there were no buyers. I did get a couple gigs as a ghostwriter so there are a couple books out there in the world that I "wrote," but then signed over to another author.

Shortly after I began teaching, I was approached by an outfit that was publishing a series of city tour guides for parents. They wanted me to be the author of the Seattle edition. I got it done and I'm proud of it, but it wasn't really a proper "writing" project in that most of what it involved was researching various attractions and points-of-interest around the area then creating little blurbs about them. Nevertheless, the result was a book with my name on the cover: A Parent's Guide to Seattle. Last I checked, there were used copies available on Amazon for less than two dollars.

The best thing about that project was that it sort of satisfied the urge to produce a book even if it wasn't the great American novel, and so, being checked off the bucket list, it hasn't been among my top-line aspirations for some time.

When I discovered blogging back in 2009, I feel like I found my true "art form," and I've not looked back. I write here almost every day and at the risk of sounding boastful, I feel like I'm threatening to become pretty good at it. That said, for the last several years, several times a week, readers have been asking me "When is your book coming out?" At first, I simply took it as flattery, but over time I was finally persuaded that there were some people, at least, who wanted to see an actual book.

So now I've done it. I can't wait to hold a copy in my hands. In many ways this is better than that novel I dreamt of in my youth. It may or may not be a work of quality. It may or may not be a work of value. Those are things for others to judge, but I can say that whatever else it is, it is a work that is uniquely mine, a product of both who I am and who I am becoming, and of that I'm very proud.

I want to thank all of you who have urged me write this book and who read my daily blog posts. Without you it really never would have happened.

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!

-->

Simply And Objectively Superior

I don't think I'm color blind, but my wife does. For years I wore a very cool brown suede trench coat. One evening, we were about to leave for a dinner party and she suggested I wear my "green suede" trench coat. On occasion I have to ask kids if it's "blue or purple." And I sometimes mistake certain greens for yellow . . . I'll let each reader be her own judge. 

That said, I freely admit that colors don't matter much to me, although if left to my own devices I'll tend to wear bright ones. I am perfectly happy with how I see colors, but it's possible that I don't see them the way the rest of you do.

Many years ago, in our old space, we needed to paint our classroom walls. I figured it might be difficult to rally a contingent of parents to give up part of the weekend for the project, but it hadn't occurred to me that the biggest challenge would be deciding on the color. Oh man, we had a lot of meetings about the color. I tried to be amused, but frankly, enrollment time was coming up and I didn't want prospective parents to reject us based on peeling paint. Honestly, I don't care much about color -- I'm more of a texture-sound-space guy -- so my knee-jerk expectation was that we would vote on a color -- red, blue, yellow -- then someone would go buy red, blue or yellow paint. But that's only because I was forgetting something I should have remembered: some people are as passionate about color as I am about, say, bacon.

Anyhow, we finally settled on a kind of butter yellow. I knew then that is was a pretty damned fine result considering that it was a color chosen by committee. A few years earlier we had lived in a condo near Seattle's heart and soul, Pike Place Market, and it was determined that the lobby wall would be painted. The color proposed by a professional designer was a very bold brick red, something against which other colors would really pop. I whole-heartedly supported this color, but others felt differently. Many just wanted to tone it down, add a little white to it. Others felt red was the wrong direction altogether, suggesting yellows or blues or hues between them on the color wheel.

The discussion was polite, opinions were firmly asserted, and compromises were made, slowly, over a month or more, each one resulting in our color becoming increasingly brown. Then the darker browns began to be eliminated until we came to colors with names like taupe, fawn, ecru, buff, sand, oatmeal, camel, tan. One of them was chosen, I don't know which, and everyone walked away not entirely happy, because no one had started at beige.

In yesterday's post about children deciding to paint their community art project "rainbow," I wrote this aside:

. . . while committees of preschoolers almost always agree to rainbow, committees of adults tasked with choosing colors almost always settle on some version of beige.

This is the moral of my story from yesterday, one that I only came to through the writing of it.

I have never had a class of 3-5 year olds who have not chosen rainbow when faced with a decision over which color to paint something that belongs to all of us. It comes up at least once a year. With the exception of our butter yellow, adults in similar circumstances, tend toward beige.

I don't care much about colors, but I'm drawn to bright ones, so I'm prejudiced in favor of the kids here. Aesthetically, rainbow is simply and objectively superior to beige. I think we can all agree on that. But on a deeper level, when one looks at it as philosophy or metaphor, there is no contest: the adults bicker their way to the least offensive solution, while their kids always opt, joyfully and proudly in most cases, for the most inclusive: simply and objectively superior.

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!

-->

Painting It Rainbow

During my first year at Woodland Park, I taught a five-year-old boy who was enthusiastic about volcanos. His interest was such that it infected his classmates. He had seen a vinegar and baking soda volcano at work and so we decided we would try to make one for ourselves. At the time, I had been working on a project with a paper mache artist and was keen to try out the technique with the kids.

I've detailed the process here on the blog, but essentially we started with a 2 liter soda bottle, put it on a base, made a framework of masking tape, mixed flour and water into a paste, then ripped up some grocery bags to use as our medium. It was an absorbing process, one that took several days as we added layer upon layer. When we were done, we felt it looked a little plain so we decided we ought to paint it.

Our volcano enthusiast informed us that volcanos are brown, but his friends had other ideas. One thought it ought to be purple, another red, and yet another pink. We had a healthy debate about the virtues of each until someone had the idea to settle the matter by "painting it rainbow." This compromise was immediately adopted by all of the kids, excepting our expert, who continued to grumpily insist that it had to be brown, but he apparently accepted the concept of majority rule even if he wasn't happy about it. We broke out paint cups filled with primary and secondary colors, then went to town, creating swirly, rainbow-y flanks. Then, in the moments after the rest of us had turned away to let the thing dry, our enthusiast took a brush and, in a matter of seconds, feverishly blended our rainbow into a brown mess. Even as the rest of us complained, he remained delighted.

I learned two main things from that project: 1) if at all possible, don't stop at majority rule, but rather continue talking until some sort of consensus is achieved, and 2) how to manage a rainbow painting process to best ensure that the children's collective vision is realized.

I'd come into teaching convinced that voting was the gold standard when it came to group decision-making, an imperfect, but essentially "fair" system, but over my years working with children (and, truthfully, with their parents as we work together to manage our cooperative preschool), I've come to recognize that achieving consensus may take more time, but ultimately it produces results that preempt the kind of grumbling and even sabotage (like we had with our volcano) that too often results from one side imposing its will on another. With adults there may be grumbling about the time-consuming, inefficient process of achieving consensus, but that has never seemed to bother the kids, which is why we often talk these sorts of things to death at circle time, giving everyone a chance to share his opinion and not moving forward until everyone is either on board or has decided to set her objections aside.

Since that first volcano project, I've facilitated dozens of similar discussions about how to "decorate" group projects ranging from birthday thrones to cardboard box space ships and every time, we achieve consensus around some version of "rainbow." Last week, our 4-5's class, for instance, began work on a volcano of their own, this one being created for the year-end play on which we've been working since January. The first few kids agreed that it ought to be painted either black or gray, but then someone had the idea of purple, which lead to others suggesting their own favorite colors. Then, as always happens with preschoolers, someone had the brilliant idea (and it alway strikes the children as a brilliant idea) of painting it rainbow. Most of the kids immediately jumped on that bandwagon, but a few remained attached to black/gray. Once this became clear to the kids, they simple coalesced around the idea of half rainbow, half black/gray, and everyone felt like a winner.

(As an aside, I want to point out that while committees of preschoolers almost always agree to rainbow, committees of adults tasked with choosing colors almost always settle on some version of beige. Just saying . . .)

In order to prevent a repeat of the volcano "browning" incident I've learned to have that discussion before we get started. I'll ask something like, "Does anyone know what happens if you mix all the colors together?" And several will call out, "It makes brown!" I'll then say, "Did anyone want a brown volcano?" And since (that first time being the only exception) no one has championed brown, the answer is always, "No." We then enter a discussion about exactly what "rainbow" means, which is invariably some version of stripes, either horizontal, vertical or a combination of both. I then tape things off according to our agreement, providing guidelines to help us all achieve our collective concept.

This year's class, as many of them do, went beyond rainbow, agreeing that we would also cover it in glitter and gems, then include a flow of "orangish-redish" lava down it's flanks.

Our rainbow painting met with everyone's approval, all agreeing that we had achieved our vision. We then, as you can see from the pictures, completely obscured that layer under glitter and gems, a result that left no one dissatisfied. Today, we will add the lava flow.

By Monday, it should be finished. I'm curious, however, what we'll decide to do with it. We've created it as a prop for our play, but they all know it's also been designed for vinegar and baking soda eruptions. Will we decid to save it for the play? Will we erupt it every day for the next few weeks? Or will we wait until after the play and erupt it as a kind of year-end celebration? I'm eager to find out. It's a process, like most, I've never managed before.

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!

-->

It's Never A Small Thing

"We don't hit people."

"We don't run in the hallways."

"We don't take things from other people."

I strive to be honest with children, yet I lie to them, or at least tell them these sorts of falsehoods almost every day, and I'm not the only one.

I hear it in our classroom and on playgrounds: many of us have fallen into the habit of "correcting" children with sentences like the ones above, "we" sentences, that are objectively false statements. Of course, I understand that "We don't hit people" is spoken in the spirit of aspiration, in the sense that we hope to one day be a place where no one hits anyone, but since we almost always say it in the immediate aftermath of someone indeed being hit, it's simply not true that "we don't hit people" and everyone knows it. If "we" don't hit people, then why does my nose hurt?

"I don't want you to hit my friends." Now that has the virtue of being true. 

"She's crying because you hurt her." True. 

"I can't let you hit people." Safety is part of my job, so yes, this is true, and not only that but I'm role modeling being responsible. 

And because of the way the children make their own rules at Woodland Park, I can even say, "We all agreed, no hitting," perhaps the most powerful true statement I can make in that circumstance because it includes the unity of "we" with the virtue of truth.

It might sound like a little thing this trading out one set of words for another, and in a way it is, but the foundation upon which we build the future is always made of little things, one atop the other. And whenever we can replace false with true in life, it's never a small thing.

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!

-->

Out-Of-Control Kids

I know it's wrong of me, but when I read the newspaper headline, Out-Of-Control Kids Driving Wichita Teachers Away, Union Says, I felt a little like cheering. Now don't get me wrong, I'm against anyone hitting, biting, or engaging in property damage, which are among the things this article alleges. I am fully supportive of teacher's unions that fight for both educators and students. And I have nothing but respect for public school teachers, whose already difficult jobs have been made even more difficult over the past couple decades as anti-child policies like No Child Left Behind (Bush), Race to the Top (Obama), and Common Core (Gates), are turning our schools into high-pressure, drill-and-kill, test-taking coal mines. Yet still, when I read that headline I could only think, "Damn straight, the kids are fighting back."

I mean, public schools have never exactly been a bastions of freedom, and kids, like all humans, love freedom. Children must attend whether they want to or not. In many cases they are told what to wear and how to cut their hair. Once there, they are told where to sit, to shut up unless called upon, and made to move from place to place according to a scheduled managed by bells. They are told what they are to learn, how they are to learn it, and by when. They have to ask permission to go to the toilet, are told when and where they may eat, what words they may or may not use, and are permitted precious little time outdoors, so little that when they do open the doors even those 15 minutes of running around feels like actual freedom. And I'm just describing my own years attending public schools during the 60's and 70's, what many call the "golden age of childhood."

It's shocking, frankly, that we didn't rebel more than we did: it's a testament to the capacity of children to thrive under any circumstances. But now consider that the pressure has been slowly increased over the past couple decades: high-stakes standardized testing and the millions of hours of test prep; the narrowing of the curriculum to focus almost exclusively on math and literacy at the expense of life-savers like the arts, wood shop, physical education, home economics; the slashing of budgets leaving schools poorly maintained and and supplied; and a drive toward longer school days and school years. 

I assure you that I, a generally well-mannered kid who was good at school, would have rebelled a long time ago.

It's impossible to really know what is going on in Wichita's schools from this article and I've not done any further digging. The administration seems to be claiming that the union is exaggerating and maybe they are. The union is demanding that the school district "do" something. The district admits that something needs to be done. The dark implication, I fear, is that they are coalescing around the idea of bringing the hammer down with more uniformed security in the school hallways, increasing the severity of punishments, and to generally give 'em a healthy dose of that infamous "tough love." In other words, make those schools even less free: even more like prisons. 

I don't know what, if anything, will be done, but I'm sadly confident that the "solution" will fall mostly on the backs of the kids because no one will think to consider that the children's behavior is a natural and predictable response to the cage in which they are forced to spend their days. 

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!

-->

"Want To See It Again?"

I had been watching her play with the kinetic sand for several minutes. She was carefully forming it into a small, smooth dome, then using a wooden knife to cut it first in half, then into quarters before re-forming it into a single dome to do it all over again. She must have done it a half dozen times or more.

She said, "Look, Teacher Tom."

I had already been watching, so I said, "I'm looking at your sand."

"It's a muffin."

"I'm looking at your muffin."

"Now watch," she commanded as she picked up a wooden knife. "It's just one muffin, right?"

"Yes, I see one muffin."

She then cut it in half. "Now I have two pieces."

"It's true," answered, "There are two pieces."

"But I only cut it once!" she said it with exaggeratedly raised eyebrows, selling the feeling of wonder that she must have felt a few moments ago when she discovered this mathematical principle. "Now watch!" She carefully placed the knife perpendicular to her previous cut and did it again, cutting it into quarters.

She looked at me with a smile that asked, Mind blown?

I said, "Now you have four pieces."

"Except," she replied, shaking her head while directing my attention to the sand with her open palms, "I only cut it two times!" As she gathered the sand back into a single muffin, she asked, "Want to see it again?"

Mathematics is something that gives human beings great pleasure. Of course, I was tempted to fill the air with concepts like "whole," "half," and "fourth." Of course, I imagined myself helping her take it a step farther, introducing "thirds" or "eighths" or whatever. But it was easy to stop myself because over the course of my education, the way I'd been taught math caused me to slowly lose my enthusiasm for it. For most of my life I'd believed that it was the subject matter, but the longer I've been teaching preschoolers, the more I've come to understand that my classroom aversion to math is a result not of math being hard, but of how it was taught to me: a dry process of drilling, rote, and formula.

I still don't know how to "teach" math without ruining it, but when it happens like this, when it's principles are simply discovered by a child, it's so beautiful that I just know the other way is wrong.

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!

-->