This story has come to mind several times in the past few weeks, so I thought I would share. 

Twelve years ago, Amy was three, Joel was two, and Patrick was a tiny baby.  During that season, there were many days when I would load the kids in the van, unsure of where we were going, but desperate to go somewhere, anywhere.  One day,  I chose to go to the Dairy Queen on University since they had a Duplo table to keep the children occupied while I soothed my ache with a Butterfinger Blizzard. We ate some ice cream and they played for a few minutes, but the children’s behavior quickly began to deteriorate.

I don’t remember now who started to fuss, but by the time I finally got everyone bundled up and headed for the door, all three children were wailing.  Of course, I felt like everyone was staring at me, but there was one man in particular whose glances toward us were unmistakable.  He was probably in his late fifties and he was sitting at a corner table eating lunch with his wife. I knew what he was thinking.  He was wondering why I had all these kids out in public if I couldn’t control them.  He was wondering if I knew what a disturbance we were causing.  He wanted to know how in the world I could let myself be whipped by someone who only weighed twenty pounds.  

  I tried to keep my head down, not to meet his glances, and to keep walking, but the tension was mounting.  You see, I had two hands to carry an infant carrier and to hang on to two toddlers who did not want to leave.  I felt my face get hot and my throat tighten and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man get up and start to walk toward me.  He moved slowly and cautiously toward the door where we were headed.  I must have winced as he approached, bracing myself for the worst, but to my surprise, his voice was quiet. “Can I help you?” he asked.  I must have looked startled, but he went on.  “I could carry something. Where is your car?”  I nodded vigorously and handed him the diaper bag and pointed to our van just outside the door, which he opened for us and held until we were all outside.  He proceeded with us to the van and helped me to get everything loaded, and then he said, “you know, we raised four children ourselves, and they are all grown now, but I remember these days.  This really is the hardest part.”  I think all that I could manage was a “Thank you. Thank you so much”, but I have never forgotten this man.  

I would like to tell him thank you again.  Thank you for offering to help me instead of criticizing me.  Thank you for not telling me to “just wait until they are teenagers”.   Thank you for taking a risk to reach out to me.  You made a difference.   

A few years ago, Dan and Molly gave me Garrison Keillor’s anthology of “Good Poems”.  That was the first book of poetry that I really loved.  Later, I found “Good Poems for Hard Times”.  The past few weeks, I have not been able to put it down.  One of my favorites is written by Barbara Crooker.  I love it because I know that the most deeply satisfying moments of motherhood for me are days “when nothing happened”.  One of my children read this and said, “But that’s not ordinary life.”  Ok. Good point.  Most days at our house involve pokes, bickering, lost gloves, etc.  But every now and then, in the “hard, cold knuckle of the year”, we are given such an unexpected gift.

Ordinary Life

Today was a day when nothing happened,
the children went off to school
without a murmur, remembering
their books, lunches, gloves.
All morning, the baby and I built block stacks
in the squares of light on the floor.
And lunch blended into naptime,
I cleaned out kitchen cupboards,
one of those jobs that never gets done,
then sat in a circle of sunlight
and drank ginger tea,
watched the birds at the feeder
jostle over lunch’s little scraps.
A pheasant strutted form the hedgerow,
preened and flashed his jeweled head.
Now a chicken roasts in the pan,
and the children return,
the murmur of their stories dappling the air.
I peel carrots and potatoes without paring my thumb.
We listen together for your wheels on the drive.
Grace before bread.
And at the table, actual conversation,
no bickering or pokes.
And then, the drift into homework.
The baby goes to his cars, drives them
along the sofa’s ridges and hills.
Leaning by the counter, we steal a long slow kiss,
tasting of coffee and cream.
The chicken’s diminished to skin &skeleton,
the moon to a comma, a sliver of white,
but this has been a day of grace
in the dead of winter,
the hard cold knuckle of the year,
a day that unwrapped itself
like an unexpected gift,
and the stars turn on,
order themselves
into the winter night.

So, are you curious?  What did four preschool teachers want to find out about the fire station and what happened when they rang the doorbell, clipboards in hand, and started asking questions?  Firefighter Lance answered the door, and after we explained to him what we were doing, he showed us in and proceeded to give us a forty-five minute tour of the station, answering all of our questions. 

When we came back to the conference center, we were given tools to put together a documentation board, which is a display teachers can use to pass on information about the project.  We titled our project “Surprises at the Fire Station”, which helped us to narrow down the pages of notes we had taken by limiting us to the information we did not know before we went.  For example, we predicted that there would not actually be a Dalmatian at the firehouse.  We did not know that the purpose of having Dalmatians in the firehouse years ago was to have them run ahead of the horses, clearing the streets like a siren does today.  Here are just a few of the many other “surprises” we found:

1. Grocery shopping is a daily duty at the firehouse.  While we were there, the ambulance crew had just arrived back from the store with the order for the day.  They offered us a soda.
2. The most common kind of burn for a firefighter is not caused directly by the flames, but by steam.  When they sweat under their gear, the extreme heat causes steam so hot that their skin burns. 
3. During the day, the TV can only be on from noon-1:00 so that they can watch the news after lunch.  The firefighters do get free time after 5:00pm during a 24 hour shift.  Lance said he works out during this time in the downstairs fitness room.  He said he also uses the time to do home improvement projects.  Recently, he brought base board and quarter round from home and spent his down time in the fire station basement applying stain.  When his shift was over and the stain was dry, he took it home and put it in his house.  This works well for Lance, because, as he pointed out, “If mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”
4. Firefighters have to go through paramedic training, which is full time training that lasts for four months.  They train with doctors at the hospital, and when the four months is over, they are required to work twenty shifts in the ER, deliver at least six babies, and attend surgeries to practice intubation.  Lance said this training was the hardest thing he has ever done. 
5. Probably the biggest surprise is that at the end of our tour, while we were sitting in the ambulance, one of the firefighters asked us if we would like to accompany them to the local library to read to preschoolers.  We agreed, and the next thing we knew, we were headed there by ambulance.  If you had told me that morning that my day would include an ambulance ride, I wouldn’t have predicted that the day was going to be so pleasant.

When we got to the library, we were led to the children’s area, where a group of preschoolers involved in a group called “ready readers” (or something like that) was waiting for the firefighters to read to them.  In her greeting to the children, the librarian informed them that after the presentation, the children would “do phonics”.

“Hmm….” I thought to myself, “What if she had instead asked the children what they wanted to find out about the firefighters, writing down their questions so that they could see the letters going onto the page, observe beginning sounds and notice the question marks at the end of each inquiry.  She could have made a list of their predictions (the Dalmation, the pole) and compared it to their findings(no pole-it’s hard on the knees, no dog).  Then the context of the letters would have been meaningful.”  Ahh…my Katz-ichism(teaching by Lilian Katz, one of our workshop leaders and world renowned expert on the project approach) is really changing the way I think!

When my oldest daughter, Amy, was in second grade, she became a writer.  She was a student of Pam Socie at Yankee Ridge School, who had a truly wonderful and innovative literacy program for her students.  The program consisted of the following two elements:

1.Reading books chosen by the children

 2.Writing about topics chosen by the children

It was quite simple.  The children could choose from a variety of appealing books.  They selected their own topics for writing. They wrote about what they were reading and what was going on in the classroom or where they had gone over the weekend.  Mrs. Socie helped them plan, edit, and re-write, offering helpful suggestions while keeping the work the children’s own.  For spelling instruction, she looked through their draft books and selected a few misspelled words each week for them to practice.  This took a lot more time than giving the same list from the spelling textbook to every child, of course.  I did not say this approach was easy.  It was time-consuming and challenging and required careful attention to individual students, but it was not complicated. 

 I learned this program well because I was one of the parent volunteers who came in to give individualized spelling tests to a small group of four children one day per week.  At parent/teacher conferences, I said, “I love the literacy program here.  In fact, I would love to be a student in this classroom.”  I pictured myself setting aside my motherly duties and spending an hour and half each day quietly pouring over books that interested me and then writing my thoughts down with a personal “coach” to encourage me and make helpful suggestions.  I could learn new vocabulary words and revise my writing until I was truly satisfied with it.  “Yes”, I thought, “sign me up!”  That year, my daughter began to devour books and paint pictures with words.  As a sophmore in high school, she still loves to write, and there is no doubt in my mind that Mrs. Socie deserves a fair amount of the credit. 

No matter what age level we are teaching, it seems to me that a good test of our practices is to ask ourselves whether the teaching method would motivate us as adults.  As I write this, I am away from home, attending a workshop on The Project Approach for preschool teachers.  In the first day of training, we learned that a project is “an extended, firsthand, in-depth investigation of a topic undertaken by a class, a group of children, or an individual child in an early childhood classroom or at home”.

Doing a project requires the teacher to:

1.  Find a topic to explore that is interesting and relevant to the group

2.  Ask the children, “What do you want to find out about……” and write down all of their questions.

3.  Investigate the topic in order to answer the questions.  You could interview an expert, take a field trip, conduct an experiment, or look in a book.

4.  Share what you have learned with others. 

The Project Approach requires careful attention to what the children are really wondering about in order for it to be genuine.  It requires the teacher to think of creative ways to allow children to interact with the topics, such as planning field trips,inviting experts to come into the room, and providing hands-on activities for children to “mess around with topic”.  I am sure that it is challenging to teach this way, but it is not complicated.

Ask yourself this question: What would you like to learn more about?   Part of our training requires us to break up into groups and conduct our own projects on topics close to the conference area that we find interesting.  One group is going to Starbucks (which drinks are most popular?  Why do people say that Starbucks is a great place to work?  What is a “dry” cappuccino?).  Another group is going to study the fountains around the hotel (does the water in fountains re-circulate?  Do they get turned off when the weather is cool?  What do they do with the money that is thrown into them?).  Our group is going to the fire station (How many calls do they get per day or per week?  What is the most common reason for a call?  How do they deal with the stresses and dangers of the job?  Are they able to sleep when they are there at night?  How often do they have to be “on call”?  What training is required for the job?).  You know, I am genuinely curious!

            There is much more to say about it and much more to learn, but I can already tell that is indeed the kind of  learning that would be motivating to anyone because it allows the learners to follow their own interests, to interact with a topic at their own level, and to find the answers to questions that they actually asked.        

I gave up using the video camera six years ago when Sam was born.  We got the camera from my in-laws when Amy was a baby and we used it all the time.  Her early steps, words, and all of her first birthday parties (you know, one with my parents, one with my in-laws, one with friends, and one on the actual day of her birthday) are in the family archives forever.  The family grew quickly, but, because I still only had two hands, the videotaping tapered off until I stopped it altogether.  Several years ago, a dear friend spent many hours converting all of our videotapes into DVDs and they are precious to me.  The children love watching them, too, laughing uproariously at themselves as infants and toddlers.  As happy as I feel when we watch these videos, I always feel a twinge of guilt that poor Sam’s early years were not adequately documented.

            As with most practices that come about out of necessity, I had to develop a philosophy on camera use that fit the reality that I simply was not able to keep up with it.  As I searched for a good reason to justify my neglect, I recalled Joel’s preschool graduation.  I remember that he was wearing his frog shirt and aqua sandals and that his head was covered in gorgeous, light brown curls.  I remember that when they presented pictures the children had drawn of what they wanted to be when they grew up, he wanted to be a basketball player.  I remember that I cried, because I was overcome once again with my delight in this fascinating five-year-old boy. But I also remember that every family in the audience was watching it through the lens of a video camera.  “This demographic is heavy on the video cameras,” Mike pointed out, as he looked around the room.  And I found myself feeling for a moment like we were all at work, recording data, and not sharing the experience at all.

            Several years ago, I came across a poem by Wendell Berry that soothed my ever-aching mother’s conscience.  I would love to sit and watch Sam take his first steps and smear birthday cake all over his face again, but since I cannot, I take comfort in knowing that I did not miss the events.

The Vacation

Once there was a man who filmed his vacation.

He went flying down the river in his boat

with his video camera to his eye, making

a moving picture of the moving river

upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly

toward the end of his vacation.  He showed

his vacation to his camera, which pictured it,

preserving it forever: the river, the trees,

the sky, the light, the bow of his rushing boat

behind which he stood  with his camera

preserving his vacation even as he was having it

so that after he had had it he would still

have it.  It would be there.  With a flick

of a switch, there it would be.  But he

would not be in it.  He would never be in it.

Patrick was sick at the end of the last school year and he missed his fifth grade recognition. I promised him that we would take him out to dinner to celebrate, and three short months later, we came through on the promise. Patrick is an avid soccer fan and loves all things European, so we took him to Gibson City to the Bayern Stube. I highly recommend this German restaurant for a special outing for kids. The walls are full of interesting collections, such as colorful steins, coffee grinders, dolls, clothing, and mounted animals. Sometimes they even have an accordion player for entertainment. And the food? It’s delicious. Hot cheese pretzels, spaetzle (noodles), strudel, and, of course German Chocolate cake. I think Patrick would say it was worth the wait.

As the first day of school draws near, my mind is occupied with thoughts about my new classroom. Our topic for investigation this fall is recycling, and I am thankful to my niece, Madeleine for getting the ball rolling by dictating this story for me and my students. I hope that this inspires many “recycling stories”. On a side note, I think The Little Prince would love Madeleine’s self-introduction. No boring numbers needed (age, grade, address), but she gives us a great picture of who she is.

Click to see powerpoint file.

After my last post about the movie, “My Kid Could Paint That”, I was forced to think about just what fascinated me about this movie.  I think the most interesting part of the whole story was that a young child’s art work was recognized as beautiful.  I know very little about modern art, but I have always been a big fan of children’s paintings.  At the age of four, most children are not primarily concerned with what other people will think of their creations, which seems to make the finished work especially interesting and pure.  The documentary features art critics praising Marla’s work and skeptics who say that she is just a typical preschooler.  As I reflected on these comments, I wondered why the conclusion that this child was”normal” made her art any less fascinating.

What if the only unusual thing about Marla Olmstead was that she was given huge canvases and high quality paints and brushes and allowed to spend as much time as she wanted painting in her underwear, since that was what she preferred to wear?  She would have still opened our eyes to a wonderful discovery.  Is every child and artist, as Picasso said?

I mentioned that I also found the movie disturbing.  It allows you a glimpse of what Marla’s parents are thinking, or at least what they say they are thinking, as her fame grows and as the authenticity of her artwork is called into question.  They wrestle with the decisions that they have made to promote their daughter’s work and to put her in the spotlight.  The say that they want Marla to live a normal life, but at the end of the documentary, she is back in art world, attending showings, meeting potential buyers, allowing strangers to fawn over her.  It’s all just the kind of thing that grown-ups would do, from the perspective of Antoine de Saint-Exupery:

“Grown-ups like numbers.  When you tell them about a new friend, they never ask questions about what really matters.  They never ask;” What does his voice sound like?” “What games does he like best?” “Does he collect butterflies?”  They ask “How old is he?” “How many brothers does he have?” “How much does he weigh?” “How much money does his father make?” Only then do they think they know him.  If you tell a grown-up, “I saw a beautiful red brick house , with geraniums at the windows and doves on the roof…,” they won’t be able to imagine such a house.  You have to tell them, “I saw a house worth a hundred thousand francs.”  Then they exclaim, “What a pretty house!” (The Little Prince, p. 10)

It is so like a grown-up to see a child say or do something and respond by trying to produce some numbers. ”How many years ahead of her peers is she?” “ What percentage of other children his age could do what he just did?”   “What reading level is that book, anyway?” And, at our very worst, “How much money could their work be worth?”  Grown-ups are like developers walking through a breezy pine forest, envisioning parking lots, Wal-Marts, and Applebees, if they could just get others to see the potential that lies in front of them.  Wasted potential is such a shame.

In honor of Sammy’s birthday, here is one of my favorite poems.

When I was one, I had just begun

When I was two, I was nearly new

When I was three, I was barely me

When I was four, I was not much more

When I was five, I was hardly alive

But now I am six, and clever as clever

I think I’ll stay six forever and ever.

-AA Milne

I love this age! Happy Birthday Sam!

  Speaking of children’s art.. Have you seen this movie?  My brother-in-law recommended it and assured me that I would find it interesting on many different levels.  He was right.  This documentary film follows the painting career of four-year-old Marla Olmstead, whose paintings received international attention and sold for huge prices.  I love good documentaries, and although this one was a little disturbing at times, it was thought provoking.  Here is a review: 

http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/my_kid_could_paint_that/