"Little World" Is Still Dead

It really wasn't that long ago, although it seems like a lifetime, when we first consciously introduced "loose parts" to our outdoor classroom. You can check out the posts I wrote about it by clicking on the "Little World" link over there in the right hand column under the heading "Teacher Tom's Topics." I don't think there are any other aspects of my personal journey as a teacher better documented here on the blog than the path from there to here.

A couple days ago, I linked to an article about the Swanson Primary School in Auckland, New Zealand that had achieved a multitude of positive results from "tearing up" their playground rule book. The article mentioned a "loose parts pit" full of "junk such as wood, tyres and an old fire hose." As an adult, I tend to gravitate toward the idea of a "loose parts pit," a place to keep the loose parts, much the way Woodland Park started with "Little World" as a place to keep our smaller, cuter loose parts. I sometimes read about teachers and parents beginning their own experiments with loose parts, using terms like "loose parts box," to describe their intentions. 

In these aspirational terms, I see fellow travelers setting out on the journey I'm on. I think I'm a ways ahead of them, but in all honesty, like with most things involving preschoolers, it's impossible to pinpoint exactly where you are on your journey at any given moment. What I think I've learned about loose parts is that you can't contain them in a pit or box, not if you're really going to let the children play with them. I remember quite clearly the day that I decided to give up on harassing the children with comments like, "That belongs in Little World," urging them to return to the designated area, or at least to return a particular item there when finished. It was a classic case of attempting to push water uphill. I was, once again, scouring our outdoor space, rounding up all our stray loose parts when it struck me that they weren't so loose if they had to stay in one place. I know, it seems to obvious now, but back then it was an epiphany.

And so, from that moment forward I stopped harassing, stopped fretting, stopped worrying that cool things would get lost forever. I stopped worrying and learned to embrace the true nature of loose parts which is, self-evidently, to be loose.

Today, one can hardly take a step without discovering some small figurine or florist marble or part of something that used to be something else, the direct legacy of Little World. The same can be said for the larger loose parts. We have the wood and tires, of course, but also galvanized steel garbage cans, ropes, ladders, planks, traffic cones, and logs, among other things, none of which are confined to a pit, unless, of course, you want to define the entire place as a "pit," which some have, dismissing our school with the epithet "junkyard chic," a term I've come to embrace as a positive.

Lately, the "hot" items have been a roll of plastic fencing, which Gus pulled from a stash of stuff I've always thought of as adult supplies, and a pair of old automobile snow chains that Henry tends to drape over his shoulder an trudge around like a ghost from a Dickens story. At the end of each day, I might find these loose parts anywhere, abandoned at the end of play, perhaps still in a place where I can deduce how they were used, but usually not; usually by the time I come across them they don't look like the creative playthings they are, but rather, to my adult eyes, like "junk."

I'm grateful the parents who send their children to our school understand and support the way loose parts have been incorporated into our day. I still feel a pang of self-consciousness whenever we have prospective new families tour our facilities, however, which they do this time of year. Intellectually, I know that those who are offended by our "junkyard chic" are probably not good fits for our school anyway, but I still have to fight the urge to tidy up beyond our day-to-day efforts in my desire to make a good first impression. And, of course, for every one of those judgmental parents, there are others who enthuse about how much fun her child will have playing there.

What I've learned is that loose parts cannot be contained in a box or even a pit. It is in their nature to be free, to be lost, then found again, to be here then there. It is in the nature of loose parts to be loose and to make that happen I must every day fight my own urge to contain them.

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

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"It's Soooo Dangerous"

A few years back I inherited a box of costume jewelry, mostly earrings and broaches. When I offered them up to the Pre-K class to consider as additions to their costumes for our Pre-K play, they were mostly only interested in declaring various pieces "dangerous." I understood the pins on the backs of the broaches -- no one likes to be pricked -- but earring posts? 

"These are dangerous?" I asked, trying to sound incredulous.

"Yeah," answered Jody, "Somebody could poke it through their skin." The others nodded.

Our outdoor classroom is bestrewn with "loose parts." When educators use that term,

they're usually referring to rocks and sticks and pine cones, natural things, but at

 Woodland Park we stretch the definition to include all kinds of things, including

 discarded costume jewelry.

"Really?" I was genuinely irritated by this development. This wasn't supposed to take up much time. I just wanted to let the kids take what they wanted, then we would add the rest to the outdoor classroom. I thought they'd make cool loose parts, but the kids were finding danger in my plan. I made a show of poking my finger with an earring post. "It doesn't even hurt. See?"

Several of the kids offered up their own fingers. "Did it poke through anyone's skin?" No, it hadn't. I figured we were now ready to move on. I'd leave the broaches at the workbench with a pair of pliers with which the kids could break off the pins, but at least we wouldn't have to do anything with the earrings.

Jody said, "They didn't poke through our skin because we're big kids. But the little kids might poke themselves . . . because they're little." His friends agreed and since we didn't have any little kids around on which to test Jody's thoughtful theory. I was thwarted.

So we divided everything into two piles: a very small "safe" pile and a very large "dangerous" pile. We believe at Woodland Park in involving children in their own risk assessments, but just as they sometimes create draconian rules when left to make their own rules, they sometimes find danger behind every tree when left to assess their own risks. It's part of the pendulum process of figuring out how to be responsible for oneself, I know, so I took a deep breath and went with the swing, knowing full well that it wouldn't be long before one of them careened from being hyper-cautious into trying something that caused my heart to leap into my throat.

As it turns out, the children were either not capable or not interested in removing the dangerous bits on their own, and so it was that I found myself the following morning sitting in the outdoor classroom, using a pair of pliers to render the costume jewelry "safe." We were later going to visit our neighborhood fire station, but in the meantime we were waiting, and Jody was one of the first kids there.

"What're you doing, Teacher Tom?"

"Breaking off the dangerous parts."

"Those are sooooo dangerous."

"Not any more," I said, tossing a post-less earring into the sand pit. I was long over my irritation. I sometimes babble. "Oh, I shouldn't have done that. It's already so messy out here. Maybe we should make a rule: no making things messy."

Jody thought about it for a moment. "No, that's not a good rule. Making things messy is how kids have fun."

"Really? Then I guess that would be a bad rule."

"Yeah, it would be a bad rule."

I tossed a pin-less broach into the sand pit. "What happens when everything is just totally messy?"

"Then we'll have to build it all back up, then mess it up again."

"And that's how to have fun?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want to help me mess this jewelry around the playground?"

"That's not fun."

"Okay, I'll do it myself."

"It's soooo dangerous."

"Are you kidding me?"

"I was always kidding you, Teacher Tom."

I don't always know if the kids know what they're saying, but as I painstakingly broke yet another tiny post off an earring I kind of suspected Jody knew exactly what he was saying.

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

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Behind The Windmill

We have this little platform built from a pair of shipping pallets and some discarded fencing slats that has resided just behind the windmill since we moved into our new space. They are products of our very first summer session, and we've been using them as outdoor "floors" ever since.

It's in the nature of "loose parts" to go wherever the children take them, but when I'm fluffing up the place, when I come across interesting toys and tidbits like seashells or baskets or cow bells or knots of root, I toss them into the area of these platforms behind the windmill.

I do it mostly so that I have a collection of objects at hand for playing stories. Sometimes when a kid gets upset or is missing mommy, after we've spent some time hanging out with the emotion, I like to bring her to the platforms and start "playing stories." It's a great way to reconnect that child with what's going on at school, especially the other children who usually then gather round, finding their own loose part props or sets or characters to take part in the game.

But I don't have to wait until a child is upset to play there, nor do the kids. I keep wanting to do something "more" with that space in the bull's eye of our outdoor classroom: maybe build it out a bit more, frame in a wall or two, create more opportunities for making cubbies or forts or whatever. I once saw a photograph from the 1920's of a giant outdoor doll house, which was really just a set of irregular, head-high shelves accessible from both sides. I've also thought it might be cool to inset colored plastic windows so when the sun shines through it creates patches of color on the ground. And I'd like to add some sort of mechanism that makes it a little easier for the kids to turn the windmill's vanes -- as it is now, only the oldest, strongest kids can manage it.

But then again, as much as I'm in love with my ideas, I like the ideas that already emerge in this space, a simply defined area in which I toss the loose parts.

The whole point of our school, and the reason that what we're doing is important, is that it's a place where children get to practice playing with the other people. It really doesn't matter how much you know, how many facts you can recite, how high you can climb, or how talented you are. If you don't learn how to play with the other people, it makes everything else a little empty. It's the other people, your friends and family, your relationships with classmates and teachers, your connections with co-workers, bosses, and customers: it's what happens there that at the end of the day makes for a happy life.

So when they connect, like a group of our younger children did the other day over this simple game of "feeding the pony" with the small pile of straw that remains from the big one we once had there, a game that started in earnest, then evolved into silliness, a game that erupted spontaneously as a result of several independent suns revolving around the floor behind the windmill, then suddenly syncing up, they are doing the most important work there is.

I start thinking about what we can do with this space behind the windmill when it sits fallow for several weeks on end, as it does sometimes, being used primarily as a pass-through on the way to somewhere else. I've watched how this area is used for a little over 12 months now, which has given me the data I needed to discard more concrete concepts like building a full-on play house, which is what I wanted to do when we first moved into the place. Anything we do here must be more flexible than that: it must support this kind of open-ended, freeform play, without placing the constraints on it of walls and roofs and windows. 

And so I'm glad we've gone slowly here, letting the children show us how they want to use this space without a name, this space behind the windmill where I toss the loose parts. I'm willing for this to already be all it ever needs to be.

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!

Figuring Out What They Really Are

Between the first and second week of Woodland Park's first summer session we received a box of what are described by the manufacturer as "open-ended play costumes" from the Icelandic company Fafu Toys.  I'll admit to have been eagerly awaiting the arrival of these "toys"; they look both magical and well-made on the website and I couldn't wait to put them through their paces.

We're an outdoor school during the summer, rain or shine, and last week started off quite wet. I've noticed that almost all of the photography on Fafu's website shows the products being used outdoors, so I'm assuming they're designed for rugged use, but I decided, in fairness, since they're made from felted wool, cotton, and silk, to wait for drier days for their maiden voyage, although I still fully intend to eventually find out what happens with these toys after some good solid rain play.

I displayed them on a funky coat rack near our garden, giving the parent-teacher in charge of the garden the basic instruction to just re-hang things when the kids aren't using them any longer, so they're easy to find, but to otherwise let the kids use the toys as they would.

Charlotte arrived early, and being a child who has been coming here for a long time, saw something new, and made a beeline for them, "What are these?"

"New toys."

"They're costumes." She then began to systematically remove items from the rack and drop them on the ground.

"Aren't you going to try any of them on?"

"No."

I was sitting in the sandpit while she dismantled my display. When she was done checking the inventory she came over to me and asked, "What are you doing, Teacher Tom?"

I'd been fiddling around with a couple pieces of colored plastic tile. I stuck them in the ground and said, "I'm building a house."

"I'll help you."  So we set about collecting rocks, pieces of bark, some scraps of wood, and a few seashells.  Liam joined us and we were soon engaged in a "Little World" style building project, that grew to include "a forest," a "backyard," and a "swimming pool."  At one point Charlotte said, "I know!"  She went back to the costumes, which an adult had carefully returned to the rack, picked out a purple "Cony", which she had clearly recalled, and added it to the construction, supporting it by inserting a stick through the hole in the point and into the sand, saying, "This is the tower."

It pleases me that the first thing we did with our new toy was to use it as a loose part, an element of construction, as we played a story, sticking a feather into it for good measure.

As the construction grew, someone reflected on the cone shape of our "tower" and incorporated a couple more cone shapes. 

As the loose part play took on a life of its own, I made myself scarce, which is what I try to do once things get going.  A half and hour later, when I thought to check in, all of this was gone, the parts re-purposed for more timely endeavors.

I tried to make no big deal of the new toys, wanting the kids to discover and explore them in their own way at their own pace, although it was hard given that nearly every parent who arrived with her child took a moment to enthuse over them, remarking particularly over the thick felted wool items.

I tried to avoid the use of the word "costume," opting for the less limiting word "toys," but like Charlotte, most of the kids saw them as things to wear.

Ah, but what kind of costumes?  The "Handys" were alternatively animal paws, monster hands, and dinosaur feet. Some of the kids didn't like how the mitts limited the use of their fingers and discarded them fairly quickly, but others seemed to enjoy exploring things without the use of their fine motor control, trying things like climbing and drumming.

The kids didn't really know what to make of the hat-like items, like the Coneys and "Earys". Oh, they knew they were hats, but what kind of hat?  I slipped up at one point and suggested that maybe they were princess hats, only to be shot down: "Princess hats are pink!"

A couple kids experimented with the triangular shaped "Silkys" (made from real silk!), asking me to tie them around their waists so they could "match."

The cotton "Poppys" were identified by most of the kids as capes. I like the way they have dozens of snaps sewn around the edges, however, which should allow kids to explore using them in a variety of ways as they get to know the toys better. I can imagine sleeves and skirts being "made" from these. So far, the kids have asked adults to work the snaps. Ultimately, we're going to want the kids to be doing that on their own, I think, if we're going to really unlocked the potential of these toys.

We definitely need to add a large mirror to our outdoor classroom, something I've wanted to do for awhile, but until now I've not felt strongly compelled. There's nothing that promotes dress-up play more than being able to see yourself in costume. 

The one item that didn't get used during these first few days were the "Andys", circular poncho-like pieces with lots of holes for arms and legs. 

I don't think we've done anything so far more than scratch the surface with these toys. My plan is to let them "run" out there in the outdoor classroom all summer.  It will be an ever-changing group of children of all ages, but a core group will be there all summer, which should give them an opportunity to really put them through their paces and figure out what they really are.

(This is more "inside baseball" than I usually like to get into around here, but hardly a day goes by that I'm not approached by someone who wants to use this blog to help them "get the word out" about a product or service or website, most of which are likely wonderful, worthy, and wow. Sometimes they're inquiring about advertising rates, sometimes it's a quid pro quo kind of offer like a trade of links, sometimes it's free stuff to use for my own site's marketing efforts like give-aways, and some of it's a straight forward publicity pitch. I spent years working in public relations, advertising and marketing before finding my calling, so believe me, I do sympathize, especially with small business operators who are working on a shoestring, but mostly I decline.

When I started writing here 3 years ago, I did so under the assumption, even expectation, that one day I'd have enough readers that Teacher Tom's Blog would be an attractive place to advertise.  I even have a page all written up and in draft form that I prepared 2 years ago against the day when I launch official efforts to sell advertising.  For awhile I rented out a tiny portion of the page to a major advertising network, but even though I checked all the boxes I could, I was still regularly appalled at the ads I would find here, so I discontinued that.

I still want to run ads some day, but the longer I've been doing this, the more uncomfortable I get with the idea of product advertising for things that I myself can't endorse. I hope, if nothing else, part of the "Teacher Tom brand" is honesty and integrity, and if I'm going to attach my name to something, I want it to be something that will not only not damage that brand, but will be something about which I believe readers will be happy to learn. 

Hulda from Fafu Toys contacted me awhile back to introduce me to her company. I have to say I really like what they're up to over there in Iceland! I believe I've read every word on every page of their website, including their outstanding blog: they seem really committed to creativity, open-ended play, and childhood, and better, they are applying that knowledge to their products.  Fafu has sent Woodland Park a "Starter Pack" based on a promise from me to "review" the products, "good or bad." This is the review I promised, but I expect I'll want to write more about these well-made products as the children learn how to incorporate them into our curriculum.)

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!

"I Was Always Kidding You"

I recently inherited a box of costume jewelry, mostly earrings and broaches. When I offered them up to the Pre-K class to consider as additions to their costumes for our Pre-K play, they were mostly only interested in declaring various pieces "dangerous." I understood the pins on the backs of the broaches -- no one likes to be pricked -- but earring posts? 

"These are dangerous?" I asked, trying to sound incredulous.

"Yeah," answered Jody, "Somebody could poke it through their skin." The others nodded.

Our outdoor classroom is bestrewn with "loose parts." When educators use that term,

they're usually referring to rocks and sticks and pine cones, natural things, but at

 Woodland Park we stretch the definition to include all kinds of things, including

 discarded costume jewelry.

"Really?" I was genuinely irritated by this development. This wasn't supposed to take up much time. I just wanted to let the kids take what they wanted, then we would add the rest to the outdoor classroom. I thought they'd make cool loose parts, but the kids were finding danger in my plan. I made a show of poking my finger with an earring post. "It doesn't even hurt. See?"

Several of the kids offered up their own fingers. "Did it poke through anyone's skin?" No, it hadn't. I figured we were now ready to move on. I'd leave the broaches at the workbench with a pair of pliers with which the kids could break off the pins, but at least we wouldn't have to do anything with the earrings.

Jody said, "They didn't poke through our skin because we're big kids. But the little kids might poke themselves . . . because they're little." His friends agreed and since we didn't have any little kids around on which to test Jody's thoughtful theory. I was thwarted.

So we divided everything into two piles: a very small "safe" pile and a very large "dangerous" pile. We believe at Woodland Park in involving children in their own risk assessments, but just as they sometimes create draconian rules when left to make their own rules, they sometimes find danger behind every tree when left to assess their own risks. It's part of the pendulum process of figuring out how to be responsible for oneself, I know, so I took a deep breath and went with the swing, knowing full well that it wouldn't be long before one of them careened from being hyper-cautious into trying something that caused my heart to leap into my throat.

As it turns out, the children were either not capable or not interested in removing the dangerous bits on their own, and so it was that I found myself yesterday morning sitting in the outdoor classroom, using a pair of pliers to render the costume jewelry "safe." We were later going to visit our neighborhood fire station, but in the meantime we were waiting, and Jody was one of the first kids there.

"What're you doing, Teacher Tom?"

"Breaking off the dangerous parts."

"Those are sooooo dangerous."

"Not any more," I said, tossing a post-less earring into the sand pit. I was long over my irritation. I sometimes babble. "Oh, I shouldn't have done that. It's already so messy out here. Maybe we should make a rule: no making things messy."

Jody thought about it for a moment. "No, that's not a good rule. Making things messy is how kids have fun."

"Really? Then I guess that would be a bad rule."

"Yeah, it would be a bad rule."

I tossed a pin-less broach into the sand pit. "What happens when everything is just totally messy?"

"Then we'll have to build it all back up, then mess it up again."

"And that's how to have fun?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want to help me mess this jewelry around the playground?"

"That's not fun."

"Okay, I'll do it myself."

"It's soooo dangerous."

"Are you kidding me?"

"I was always kidding you, Teacher Tom."

I don't always know if the kids know what they're saying, but as I painstakingly broke yet another tiny post off an earring I kind of suspected Jody knew exactly what he was saying.

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!