We Are the Gossiping Animal

What other people say about me is none of my business.

It's a rationale that pops up for me when I feel judged by others, when I suspect or know that someone is talking about me behind my back, or, and this is probably the most frequent circumstance, when I feel insecure about the opinions of others.

The truth is that for those of us who are not Taylor Swift, our fellow humans probably spend insultingly little time thinking about us, let alone judging or gossiping about us. Still, try as we might, it's almost impossible to not, at least at times, fret or wonder about the things being said about us when we're not present. And I suspect that's because, we ourselves, judge others, and at least sometimes, we express those judgments to others.

Judging and gossiping are part of being human. In his book Sapiens, historian Yuval Noah Harari relies on anthropological research to assert that not only is gossiping part of human nature, but that it is one of the key traits that allowed Homo sapiens to evolve from a middle-of-the-food-chain mammal to an apex predator. Gossip, it seems, is at least in part how we create social bonds, friendships, and community. 

"Social cooperation is our key for survival and reproduction," writes Harari. "It's not enough for individual men and women to know the whereabouts of lions and bison. It's much more important for them to know who in their band hates whom, who is sleeping with whom, who is honest and who is a cheat."

Given the centrality of gossip to our evolution, it might be surprising to consider that most of us, most of the time, are vehement in our disapproval of gossip. Indeed, one of the worst reputations one can have is of being an inveterate gossip. So most of us strive to keep our harshest judgements to ourselves or only express them in the strictest confidence to our best friends, managing our own behavior lest we become, in turn, the subject of judgmental gossip.

My mother used to scold us, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all," a worthy aspiration, but hardly possible when gossip is such a central part of what our species is all about. 

In a study out of Japan, researchers found that even children as young as four will adjust their behaviors when presented with the possibility that an observer, even someone they don't know, might gossip about them. Children in the study shared their treats with peers, not just when others were watching, but even when they thought their behavior would be conveyed to a stranger who was not even in the room. However, when the children were assured that there would be no gossiping, they were less likely to share their treats. "These findings," the researchers write, "suggest that 4- and 8-year-old children attempt to manage their reputation when they could be a target of gossip."

Of course, what we mostly despise is malicious gossip. We tend to not object to gossip about, say, the anonymous charitable giving of a neighbor or the romantic birthday gifts exchanged between spouses. Indeed, we might not even label those things as gossip because we tend to narrow our definition of gossip to the spreading of negative or harmful stories, true or not, about others. The habitual spreading this kind of gossip, if left unchecked, has historically lead individuals to be ostracized or worse.

Gossip stands as one of the most powerful mechanisms by which human communities manage themselves. We may bridle at the idea of being controlled in this way. Likewise, most of us are likely uncomfortable with the notion that we control others, not necessarily because we gossip, but because of the possibility that we will gossip. Even very young children seem to understand this: it is part of what makes us human.

I wonder, however, if this social function of gossip is starting to wane in this era of pervasive social media (which in many ways is just a gossip column on steroids) and political leaders who seem to be immune to the feelings of shame that gossip relies upon. In fact, it seems that malicious gossip is too often rewarded. It seems that there are some who have found that gossip benefits them no matter how heinous their behavior; who thrive, indeed, on infamy. I don't know if this is a modern thing or not. I suppose there have always been those who rise to positions of power and prestige due to their reputations for cruelty and debauchery. At the same time, I wonder how much evil we've managed to avert because of the power of gossip.

When our daughter was born, I was instantly aware that I cared deeply about how she would see me. I wanted her to know me as loving, reliable, competent, and kind, even though I often hadn't behaved in those ways. This is what I mean when I say that our children make us better people. At least in my case, I managed my reputation to the point that I am, today, a much more loving, reliable, competent and kind person than I was on the day our daughter was born.  I did it for her, but also for myself.

The American culture is one in which individualism is set on a pedestal. We respect the people who don't seem to give a damn what other people think . . . At least until they do or say things that make us wish they would be ore considerate of others. We admire those who blaze their own trails . . . At least until their blaze begins to scorch the earth for others. 

We want our children to grow up to be compassionate, to care for others, and a big part of that is caring about what others think and say about us. By the same token, we don't want our children to be driven by shame or to sacrifice good and unique aspects of who they are in the name of fitting in or getting along. 

This, I think, is the great dance of being human amongst humans. We are the gossiping animal. What others say about me may still be none of my business and that is often exactly the stance to take in the name of mental health, but that doesn't mean it doesn't matter. 

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It's hard sometimes to stay-the-course these days, but every child thrives in a self-directed environment because every child deserves the right to pursue their own special genius in the company of others who likewise are pursuing their special genius. It's not just a foundation for life, but a way of life. If you want to provide this kind of playful childhood for the children in your life, then join us for a 2-week pop-up version of Teacher Tom's Play-Based Learning starting September 24. It's designed for early childhood educators, childcare providers, parents, and grandparents who know that there is so much more than mere academics. This is a great way to make sure the whole team is on the same page to begin to coming school year. To learn more and to register, click here. But hurry, we start next week!

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!

Life at the Cutting Edge of Reality

The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy. ~Albert Camus

In Greek mythology, Sisyphus was the king of Corinth, a clever trickster who offended the gods and was condemned to spend eternity rolling a large stone up a hill, only to have it roll back down before he reached the summit.

As a metaphor for life itself, it works, which is why the myth continues to resonate today. Camus' interpretation of the story as related in his 1942 philosophical essay The Myth of Sisyphus, was a response to the absurdity of our human cravings for meaning in a universe that seems indifferent. He rejects religion and suicide as responses to the absurdity, ultimately concluding that one can live fully without expecting the universe to provide purpose. "One must imagine Sisyphus happy," is a conclusion that leaves many of us cold, but as early childhood educators, we see it in action every day.

As adults, we've learned to strive for summits. To achieve our purpose, we push the stones in our lives, large and small, toward our goals, only to find that even when we achieve our wildest dreams, there are more hills and more stones. Young children have not yet learned the lesson of summits. They see only the rocks and slopes and the adventure of life. 

"No child on earth was ever meant to be ordinary, and you can see it in them, and they know it, too," writes Annie Dillard in her book The Living. They go through their days unaware of the absurdity, because, when one embraces the present, not as something to improve upon, but rather as something with which to play, the absurdity vanishes. They know the stone will always roll back to the bottom, and it fills them with wonder when it does.

It's learning that reveals the absurdity. "(A)nd they wear out their brains learning what folks expect," writes Dillard, "and spend their strength trying to rise over those same folks." 

As early childhood educators, we get to live with them during that magnificent time of life. We call it naiveté or innocence or ignorance, but it's the paradise, the happiness to which we all hope to someday return. The absurdity is that we've been taught by expectations and competition to think that it's a shining city atop that mythical hill, that's where happiness lies, if only we can get this damn stone to stay up there.

But it always rolls back down.

I'm 64 years old. The children with whom I grew up are now retiring, the summit. But I can tell you it's a false summit. There are still plenty of stones to push. My peers are battling cancer, arthritis, insufficient funds, family traumas, and an ever-changing world from which they, in their retirement, feel increasingly alienated. Kids these days!

This isn't a promise, but I can't imagine joining them if only because the children have shown me that you simply can't retire from life. Yes, you can stop pushing that one particular stone, but there will always be other stones to push. It's not the stone that matters. It's how you approach the struggle.

Immediately before the famous ending, Camus describes Sisyphus as conscious of his fate and embracing it. "His fate belongs to him. His rock is his thing." Early in the same concluding passage, he contrasts sorrow and joy, and insists that Sisyphus's conscious return to the rock can take place in joy. This isn't about tolerating or enduring or accepting one's fate, but rather the stronger and stranger claim that happiness is possible. It's how you approach the struggle.

"Each atom," Camus writes, "of that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man."

We are meant to conclude that Sisyphus is damned by the gods precisely because his process produces no lasting product. The stone always rolls back down the hill. The gods assume that this makes the punishment unbearable, but the children in our lives find a workaround in the recognition that there are no "products," only "processes," and so too are we.

Children don't stop building block towers just because they know they will always fall down. Indeed, they understand that building is a process that must include the blocks falling down. Sometimes they build the tower for the purpose of knocking it down. They come to us to paint and pretend and bicker and climb and dance and cry and laugh, often all at once. And they come back tomorrow and do it again, not chasing products, but rather immersing themselves as a part of processes that flow and change and come to include everything there is, including themselves as both subjects and agents. And in that, they find joy.

So what if the stone rolls back down? C'mon everybody, let's roll it back up again!

This is life at the cutting edge of reality.

******

Books have a way of transforming us unlike any other media out there. Be it fiction or non-fiction, a books has the power to fully immerse us into a world in ways that makes us come out the other side a changed -- and better -- person. I've put together this list of 16 books that have done that for me. They are intentionally not early childhood books, although each one has, in one way or another, profoundly transformed my work with young children. Maybe you'll find a few new ones here that will do the same for you. To download the list, click here.

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!

Where Courage Comes From

Everyone over a certain age has a 9/11 story. Mine is that I was with my wife on a Holland-America Alaskan cruise. 

We were set to begin our third year of preschool with our daughter Josephine. This was the year that I would be approached by my mentors Chris David and Val Donato to consider becoming a teacher in the North Seattle College cooperative system. I don't need to go into details, but when the news of the terrorist attacks reached us, the ship stopped dead in the water, somewhere off the west coast of Canada, a metaphor for so many things.

Our daughter was staying with her grandmother who, wisely, kept the television turned off. My brilliant mother-in-law was inclined to anxiety, so it was probably a blessing for both of them. We returned to find a cheerful and blissfully ignorant four-year-old who had spent those first few days of aftermath, living a cozy, protected life, something of which those of us paying attention to the news had been robbed.

Hysteria is the word that comes to mind when I reflect back. But in those surreal times -- those impossible, mind-blowing, faith-stomping times -- hysteria was a perfectly valid response. I'm grateful that our daughter was spared it, as the rest of the world lurched about in fear.

A week or so later, we returned for the first day of our final year of preschool together as daughter and father. The parent community had discussed how we were going to approach current events. We weren't going to bring them up, but if they came up, and we expected they would, we had agreed that we would listen, only answer the specific questions that were asked as honestly as we could, and be prepared for emotional and behavioral responses. I had also learned that most of the parents felt their children had so far had very little exposure to the news. 

On that first day, I watched two boys fly "planes" (toy cars) into their block towers, over and over and over again.

The world gets through to our children and when it does they do what they need to do to make sense of it. 

Other than that, however, the events of 9/11 didn't play a significant part in our preschool classroom that year. We had all, more or less, "protected" our children from the dramatic images. In fact, looking back, I've come to understand that one of the things that convinced me to become a preschool teacher in my own right was this experience of it as a place where we could shut out the "noise" and focus on our little community of parents and children. It was a relief to escape the "real world" into the even more "real world".

A couple years earlier, we experienced an even more traumatic event. I had been walking along our school hallway, holding the hands of my daughter and another two-year-old girl when a significant earthquake hit. We had, as a community, "trained" for this. I knew that I was to usher children under tables, and stay away from windows. 

As we rushed into our classroom and under a table, Josephine was asking, "What's happening? What's happening?" When I told her it was an earthquake, my voice was soft and soothing, even as the walls around us shook. "I don't feel it!" she complained.

Other parents had done their jobs as well. I recall looking around the room to see adults calmly chatting with children, smiling, even laughing. Our teacher announced, "Good job, everybody! We're all safe!" And then we all spontaneously started applauding. 

It was only then that it dawned on us collectively that the ground was still shaking and we'd not even thought to protect ourselves. There was a dash for the floor as we attempted to crowd in with the kids. I remember Josephine saying, "This is cozy!"

After the shaking stopped, we followed our protocol, which was for the designated adult to check the hallway, then outdoors for hazards, before signaling the rest of us to assemble in the parking lot. We emerged from the building, every adult with children holding our hands, lustily singing our favorite circle time songs together. Across the lot was an office building. I stood so Josephine couldn't see that direction because the adults there were in a full-on, weeping and wailing panic. Hysteria, a perfectly valid response.

We, however, were singing, lining up, counting heads, making a kind of holiday of it all.

Why the difference? 

We had people who needed us, and we had something to do.

Caring for others, being responsible for fellow humans, is the ultimate source of all courage, especially when it emerges from community. Indeed, I would go so far as to suggest that community produces courage. We didn't experience hysteria, I think, because it wasn't called for: it wasn't a valid response and together we buoyed one another to a kind of human greatness. We were there to serve others who needed us, who were counting on us, and we did not, would not, let them down.

I often think that many of us spend our lives without experiencing ourselves as necessary to one another. We feel alone. We feel embattled and harassed. A fertile ground of hysteria. Those of us who work with children, who are parents, know the immense power that comes from selflessness, the confidence, the real, nurturing strength of a community caring for one another.

We protect them. We serve them. We, nor they, are alone. We come through for them because the alternative is unthinkable. Perhaps courage isn't the absence of fear at all, but what becomes possible when someone else is counting on us.

******

Books have a way of transforming us unlike any other media out there. Be it fiction or non-fiction, a books has the power to fully immerse us into a world in ways that makes us come out the other side a changed -- and better -- person. I've put together this list of 16 books that have done that for me. They are intentionally not early childhood books, although each one has, in one way or another, profoundly transformed my work with young children. Maybe you'll find a few new ones here that will do the same for you. To download the list, click here.

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!

What I Told Parents to Expect of Our Play-Based Preschool

At the beginning of each new school year we held mandatory parent orientation meetings where I told the assembled parents that I would not be teaching their children literacy, although they would be laying the foundations for literacy through their play, their dramatic play in particular; every time we read to them or tell them stories, or when they tell stories to us; each time they get excited and say, "Hey that's my letter!" or "That's your letter!" I won't be teaching them, but they'll be doing exactly what they need to do to read when their brains are ready.

I told them that I would not be teaching their children math, although they would be practicing their math skills every time they counted something out, put things in order, arranged things in groups, worked a puzzle, made or identified a pattern.

I told them I was particularly uninterested in teaching STEM (science, technology, engineering, math) skills so they would be ready for those "jobs of tomorrow," although again, through their play they will be engaged in teaching these things to themselves. When one studies children at play, it's impossible to not see them as scientists or engineers, asking and answering their own questions, engaging in experiments, figuring out fundamental truths about our world and the other people. 

I told the parents that I'm singularly uninterested in vocational training. The proper career aspiration for a preschooler is princess or superhero. The jobs for which their children will be applying two decades from now do not yet exist and anyone who tells you they can predict the employment landscape that far into the future is blowing smoke. The jobs our adult daughter found herself considering did not exist when she was in preschool. The careers my high school counselors suggested that I pursue would have left me unemployable. But more importantly, we don't educate our children so that they can take their role in the economy, but rather so that they can perform their role as citizens and community members.

We always talk a lot about "community" at our parent meetings. In fact, nearly everyone who spoke would find that word in their mouth, not because it was a coordinated effort, but because it is the real foundation of what we do at our school. We're a cooperative which means that we are owned and operated by the parents who enroll their children and these parents will attend school with their children, serving as assistant teachers. We are not just a community of children, but in a real sense, on a day-to-day basis, a community of families, assembled together around the common goal of supporting our children as they learn the foundational skills of citizenship.

At it's most basic, this means that we strive to form a community in which our children can practice living in a world with other people, learning how to get their own needs met while also leaving space for others to meet theirs. Nothing is more important, not just for individuals, but for our larger society. A good citizen is someone who thinks critically, who thinks for themself; a good citizen is someone who asks a lot of questions and who questions authority; a good citizen knows that it is not just their right, but their responsibility, to speak their mind, even when others disagree; a good citizen likewise knows that they must listen, especially when they disagree; a good citizen knows that they contribute to society in ways far more vital and varied than as a worker bee. It's from citizens with these traits that strong communities, strong democracies, are made.

I told our assembled parent community that their children will be learning these things as they play together, creating their own community, and that it wouldn't always be pretty. Their children will come home covered in water, mud, paint, snot, and even upon occasion, blood. Their children will find themselves embroiled in conflict. They will be learning through joy, yes, but also tears. They will, as they must, mix it up with the other children, sort things out, make agreements, and help one another. They will teach themselves to be self-motivated, to work well with others, and begin to understand the importance of being personable, all of which are, not accidentally, the most important "vocational" skills of all.

I told the assembled adults that our job is not to teach them anything, but rather to love and support them as they perform their inquiries, test their theories, and figure out what works for them and what doesn't. We're not there to push or command or mold, but rather to create a safe space in which the children can play, together, in the context of their community.

******

Books have a way of transforming us unlike any other media out there. Be it fiction or non-fiction, a books has the power to fully immerse us into a world in ways that makes us come out the other side a changed -- and better -- person. I've put together this list of 16 books that have done that for me. They are intentionally not early childhood books, although each one has, in one way or another, profoundly transformed my work with young children. Maybe you'll find a few new ones here that will do the same for you. To download the list, click here.

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!

That Feeling of Understanding

Years ago, a friend involved in the business of "up cycling" wound up with a collection of junk with which even he couldn't figure out what to do, so he passed it all along to the preschool, where, I assured him, the experts would make something of his nothing.

Among the detritus he delivered to our playground was part of the tub assembly of a dismantled washing machine. I only knew what it was because he told me. It was a kind of circular-ish cauldron with a large opening on one side and a smaller one on the other, to which was attached a rubbery skirt. It was large enough to fit two, maybe three, small children depending upon which end you turned up.

As one does, I imaged how the children would react to it. Perhaps they would ask "What is this thing?" For them, I was prepared to answer, "It's a thing you can play with." But since most of the kids were already accustomed to odd things showing up around the place, things with no names and no pre-determined purpose (i.e., loose parts), I knew that most wouldn't bother with adult mediation and simple declare it's name and purpose.

And I was right.

"It looks like a space ship."

"It's a bathtub."

"It's the wheel from a giant machine."

One girl inverted it on the ground and sat inside it with the rubbery bit around her waist like a kind of bodice to declare it her "ball gown."

And it went from there. Over the course of the next few weeks, I spied it being used as a window in a fort, a small boat at sea, a volcano, a bird's nest, and a drum. One group attempted to hang it up as a swing. Another filled it with sand. Yet another arranged sticks in it like flowers in a vase. As I told my friend, "Young children are the ultimate up cyclers."

As humans confronted with a new thing, our first instinct is to try to find an apt metaphor for that thing. It is, in many ways, the story of human development. Our ancient ancestors explained earthquakes, for instance, with the metaphor of giants or gods stomping on the earth. As I've written before, even our most basic English verb "to be" is ultimately derived from the ancient Sanskrit words for "to grow" and "to breathe," which is to say metaphors for this amazing thing we are still trying to understand -- existence. And this is exactly what children do when confronted with new things, like this tub. They try, individually and collectively, to arrive at a metaphor for the new thing by substituting something more familiar until they find that feeling of familiarity.

That feeling of familiarity is indistinguishable from the feeling of understanding.

Even such seemingly only-the-facts things like science and math are conducted and understood through metaphor. A thunderstorm understood as friction and sparks and vacuums, of air smashing together to create noise, isn't actually those things, but rather something like those things. Indeed, the entire scientific process is one of finding better and better metaphors that approach, but never quite reach, full understanding. Likewise, those numerals we use for ciphering are metaphors of familiarity that allow us to better understand.

If the goal of education is understanding (rather than merely correct answers), then play with loose parts in their broadest sense, without adults constantly trying to inject their own metaphors into it, is the gold standard. It is that feeling of understanding we are after and that only comes through thinking about new experiences through the filter of metaphor until we find one that feels right, or at least partly right, at least for now. And then, as we play, we discover new and better metaphors, additional and supplanting metaphors, that lead us farther and father along our lifelong journey of understanding. 

******

Books have a way of transforming us unlike any other media out there. Be it fiction or non-fiction, a books has the power to fully immerse us into a world in ways that makes us come out the other side a changed -- and better -- person. I've put together this list of 16 books that have done that for me. They are intentionally not early childhood books, although each one has, in one way or another, profoundly transformed my work with young children. Maybe you'll find a few new ones here that will do the same for you. To download the list, click here.

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 First Thing Preschoolers Ever Taught Me

I first started running regular preschooler circle times as a 14-year-old baseball coach. It was an experiment by the Corvallis, Oregon Parks & Rec Department. They called it Snoopy League and I, along with another young colleague, were to "coach" four- and five-year-old baseball players.

They gave us oversized plastic bats, tennis balls and a spare field in one of the parks. It was summer so they also gave us a plastic tarp and told us that we could use a garden hose to make a "slip-and-slide" on especially hot days. That was pretty much all the instruction.

I was hired, I think, because I had experience with baseball, but also because I had a fairly extensive babysitting resume due to a dearth of willing 12-16 year-old girls in our immediate neighborhood. That had paid $1 per hour while this baseball gig was going to fill my pockets at the rate of $3.15 per hour. Woo hoo!

I'd never coached before, but I had been coached since I was eight, so I had an idea of how it worked. Within the first five minutes, however, I learned a lesson that has stood me in good stead for over half a century, especially when it comes to young children: man plans and god laughs. 

When I commanded my 20 or so players to warm up by running around the bases, they pretty much scattered all over the field. It took quite a bit of time and effort to round them back up. They had interpreted my instruction as some version of "run around amidst the bases."

From this I learned that four- and five-year-olds, with a few exceptions, might not understand the finer points of baseball, but they very much enjoyed running around on a grassy field.

When I told them to play catch, few of them could throw with any kind of accuracy and even fewer were capable of catching. From this I learned that most 4-5 year-olds, with a few exceptions, were not developmentally ready for the kind of throwing and catching necessary to actually play the game.

When I called them in to gather around for a little instructional or inspirational coach talk, they talked back, asked questions, changed the subject, and, with a few exceptions, didn't seem to really care about baseball as much as they did just being outdoors with other kids, in a park, on a warm, sunny day.

My colleague was likewise a 14-year-old, but she had no experience in either coaching or babysitting, so, by default I was the unofficial leader of the Snoopy League.

In today's world, this program would never fly. Not only would the Parks & Rec Department be sued for the use of the "Snoopy" trademark, but we 14-year-olds would likely require adult supervision ourselves. 

There were no fences or walls to mark the boundaries around the field. Had a child wanted to, they could have easily dashed into the street or down the block, an eventuality that never occurred to anyone, even the children, as far as I could tell. A few parents lingered around in the nearby playground with their even younger children, but they didn't really interact with us except during drop-off and pick-up.

With my plans and dreams for this coaching job dashed, I decided that I would just get paid to have fun with the kids.

We would start our days by taking a run, which was basically the children chasing me around the field. Then I might show off how far I could throw a tennis ball, which would result in a race to fetch it, while others showed off how far they could throw balls. 

For the kids who wanted to try out batting, I'd lob balls. 

My colleague and I demonstrated how to play catch. Some of them tried it out. Others invented their own ball games.

We often invented baseball-esque games using the equipment.

We talked about the names of the bases and the various player positions, but we also, and equally, talked about grandmas, ice cream, spiders, cuts and bruises, TV programs, and whatever else was on their collective minds. 

And, of course, that impromptu slip-and-slide featured prominently, although on most days they were happy with me just spraying them with the hose.

There were, as you can imagine, tears. I don't really recall how I dealt with injuries or emotional situations. I'd been given a first aid kit, but no training. I know I used quite a few bandages. No one scolded or blamed me about these minor childhood injuries. I likewise had no training in psychology, so I have no idea what I did about hurt feelings or broken hearts other than to let them cry until they were done. 

Our supervisor stopped by occasionally to check on us, but they stayed out of the way.

In essence, Snoopy League evolved that summer into a baseball-themed play group, with 20 preschoolers and a couple of young teenagers in charge.

Of course, what I didn't know at the time, was that since long before William Shakespeare invented the "teenager" (the concept, not the word) in Hamlet, this was one of the key roles of teens: to play with, and care for, the younger children. This is part of what is meant by the expression, It takes a village to raise a child. Young adults (and 12-13 is considered the beginning of adulthood in many traditions) along with grandparents, served as extra arms, legs, and hearts to provide relief and support for parents. Looking back, I realize that this daily two-hour session provided exactly that for 20 young mothers in Corvallis.

Not only that, it gave young adults a crash course in what young children are really all about. It gave them the opportunity to develop the skills and knowledge that they would need to be parents themselves. It gave them experience with genuine responsibility. And I know, for me, it felt good to be trusted by not only my bosses, but also the parents who entrusted me for two hours a day with their precious children.

And Snoopy League succeeded precisely when we stopped trying to make the children ready for baseball and started making baseball ready for the children.

******

Books have a way of transforming us unlike any other media out there. Be it fiction or non-fiction, a books has the power to fully immerse us into a world in ways that makes us come out the other side a changed -- and better -- person. I've put together this list of 16 books that have done that for me. They are intentionally not early childhood books, although each one has, in one way or another, profoundly transformed my work with young children. Maybe you'll find a few new ones here that will do the same for you. To download the list, click here.

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!

They Will Forget Most of Today

Much, if not most, of what you experience today will be forgotten by tomorrow.

It's why we write things down. We know that if we don't, we'll "forget." It's why we keep calendars, maintain "to do" lists, and write diaries. We think of these things as memory prompts, but they can also be thought of as ways of extending our minds beyond our bodies. We've not evolved to remember everything on our own, so we devise ways to make sure we don't forget certain things. 

It drives my wife crazy sometimes, but if I want to, say, remember to make a dentist appointment, I'll leave my toothbrush in an awkward spot before going to bed, in the spirit of tying a string around my finger. The idea is that when I see my toothbrush in an odd spot the following morning, it will remind me of what I need to do. If my wife decides to "tidy up" after me and put it away, I'll "forget" to make the appointment. 

There are techniques for improving one's memory (e.g., "memory palaces" or Method of loci), but most of us don't need that level of recall. In fact, for most of us most of the time, it's extraordinarily unimportant.

I'm thinking about memory because I've just returned from a visit with my parents, my brother, and my sister. As you might expect, when the five of us are together, we talk about our memories. At one point, my brother was telling a story about something that had happened to him. It was a familiar story, but in my version, it had happened to me. I realized that my memory had managed to reshape his story as my own.

Experts tell us that literal recall isn't the primary function of memory. As memory researcher Charan Ranganath puts it, "The human brain is not a memorization machine; it's a thinking machine. We organize our experiences in ways that allow us to make sense of the world we live in. To handle the complexities of the world, without falling prey to interference, we exploit one of the brain's most powerful tools for organizing information: the schema . . . A schema is a kind of mental framework that allows our minds to process, organize, and interpret a great deal of information with minimal effort. The way the human brain uses schemas to construct new memories is not unlike how an architect uses a blueprint to design a house. An architectural blueprint functions as a kind of map of the bare-bones information about the structure . . . of a building that shows how everything is connected. The abstract nature of a blueprint means it can be reused over and over."

In other words, it's not so important whether or not we can recall the specifics of what happened (episodic memory), but rather that we recall what we've learned about the world, "regardless of when and where that information was learned" (semantic memory). And quite often, the process of thinking causes us to reshape the specifics of our memories into a more useful story about what must have happened.

My brother and I remember the same story differently because we have different goals, emotions, and beliefs that cause us to interpret the story from our own particular perspectives. This, of course, shapes how we reconstruct our memories.

And that's the most fascinating thing about memories: they are not something we have, but rather something we construct. Indeed, experts tell us that the more often we recall a memory, the more often we've constructed it, the more it tends to stray away from what actually happened. In other words, we re-tell the story, the memory, to fit within our schemas.

This is what the children in our care are doing as they play and why the specific things we try to teach them are relatively unimportant. What they are doing in these early years is building a repertoire of schemas, of blueprints, that will serve them as they move through the world. Indeed, most of us recall very little from before we were five-years-old, but the important learning remains in the form of those schemas. 

At the end of a preschool day, I'm aware that most of what happened, the children will have forgotten by tomorrow, but that doesn't mean they haven't been doing important work. This is why I often do the minimum of tidying up. I try to leave things on the playground and classroom as the children left them. To put them away might well be the equivalent of my wife putting away my toothbrush. This pile of stones, that arrangement of twigs, these costumes on the hooks, may or may not be mind extensions, prompts, that the children have left, intentionally or not, to remind them of where they were and where they were going.

The hope is that they will more readily return to yesterday's play as through no time has passed. They see the stones and remember something about what they were thinking about. They find the cape hanging where they left it and are reminded of who they have been. They discover the half-built structure and know what comes next. Naturally, they may not remember any of this at all. They may look at the stones and see something entirely new. That's how memory works as well. We don't simply retrieve the past, but rather reconstruct it in service of the present.

This is why I'm wary when adults become too concerned about whether children "remember" what they've been taught. We ask, "What did you learn today?" as though learning can be measured by their ability to retrieve information. That's what computers are for. The most important learning, especially in early childhood, is almost never available to us in that form. What's important is the blueprint: what other people are like, what happens when I try, what my body can do, how friendship works, what happens when things fall down, how conflicts unfold, what it feels like to belong.

They will forget most of today by tomorrow. But tomorrow, they will use what they learned today to think.

And perhaps we'll have the good sense not to put away all their toothbrushes.

******

Books have a way of transforming us unlike any other media out there. Be it fiction or non-fiction, a books has the power to fully immerse us into a world in ways that makes us come out the other side a changed -- and better -- person. I've put together this list of 16 books that have done that for me. They are intentionally not early childhood books, although each one has, in one way or another, profoundly transformed my work with young children. Maybe you'll find a few new ones here that will do the same for you. To download the list, click here.

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!

"May I Dump This Bucket of Water Over Your Head?"

There are three broad categories of things about which we adults know more than the young children in our care: safety, schedules, and courtesy.

The rest is trivia. Yes, I may know more about Elizabethan novels than the typical five-year-old, but they know more about, say, Kpop Demon Hunters, so that's a wash.

Safety is obvious. Indeed, it's our number one job. None of us will last long in this profession if we're regularly sending kids home with major injuries. We say, "My job is to keep everyone safe. That's not safe. I can't let you do that." Then we don't let them do that.

Schedules can be inconvenient. We do what we can to minimize interruptions to the children's play, but the reality is that most of us have some sort of schedule to which we must adhere, even if it's just a matter of getting everyone ready when it's time to go home. We say, "My job is to make sure we're in the lunchroom at 11:30. It's 11:30. Now is lunch time." Then we usher them into the lunchroom.

Courtesy may not at first blush seem to fit with these other two, but this is where I see "consent" living. I don't expect children to align their behavior to the etiquette formulas with which many of us grew up (e.g., Emily Post), but I can't let them, say, dump a bucket of water on someone's head without first checking to make sure it's okay. I mean, it's only basic courtesy.

I once watched a boy sneak up behind a girl and dump a bucket of water over her head. He was shocked when she burst into tears. Later, as we discussed what he might have done differently, he asked, "Why is it funny when it happens on TV?"

The difference is consent. I explained that those people on TV are actors who have agreed to have water dumped on their heads, even if they pretend they didn't like it. Obviously, this kind of thing can be confusing for preschoolers and it's why they need our help to tease out the difference.

I remember when the Miss Manners column began appearing in our local newspaper back in the 1978. What made her advice different from what came before her was her insistence that etiquette wasn't about arbitrary rules, but rather about making social life work while preserving everyone's dignity. Courtesy is the answer to the question: how do we behave toward other human beings so that we respect their autonomy while still making it possible to live together? 

Young children might not grasp that concept exactly, but by the time they're three or four, most children are capable of understanding the concepts of consent and agreement. And this requires dialog, even going so far as to ask the question, "May I dump this bucket of water over your head?" then respecting the answer.

The Golden Rule is often offered as a kind of catch-all guide to living with others, but its weakness is that it allows us to judge the autonomy and dignity of others by our own sense of autonomy and dignity, rather than, you know, actually asking them how they feel about it. It's only basic courtesy.

A boy one time spent an entire morning asking his classmates if he could shoot them with his finger-gun. I admired his sense of fairness even as I found his line of inquiry unsavory. One after another, the children told him they didn't want to be shot. At some point he complained, "No body wants to play with me."

I answered, "Well, no body wants to be shot. I know I don't want to be shot. But maybe they'll play a different game with you."

He didn't like that idea. "But I won't really shoot them," he moaned, "It's just pretend."

"Maybe they don't know that."

He thought about this for a moment, then approached another child, "Do you want to be pretend shot?" Before long, half the kids were joyfully blasting each other with their fingers, everyone's dignity and autonomy intact.

******

Books have a way of transforming us unlike any other media out there. Be it fiction or non-fiction, a books has the power to fully immerse us into a world in ways that makes us come out the other side a changed -- and better -- person. I've put together this list of 16 books that have done that for me. They are intentionally not early childhood books, although each one has, in one way or another, profoundly transformed my work with young children. Maybe you'll find a few new ones here that will do the same for you. To download the list, click here.

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!