I am the parent of two Native American children.
For those of you who might have grown up in my era, with my type of textbooks, you probably believe like I did--that the Native Americans were friendly with their corn, saved the pilgrims that miserable first thanksgiving, and forged a wonderful bond of friendship.
Oh, how we lie!!!
Here are the facts: Each Native American tribe represents a unique culture. Across North America, there were at one point literally thousands of these tribes. This means there were thousands of unique languages, foods, traditions, clothing, and belief systems. Little by little, through a variety of governmental programs and policies, our nation has systematically destroyed all but a few of these unique cultures.
Most of us are at least minimally familiar with the Trail of Tears, the long walk forced upon thousands of Native Americans during the 1830s, following the Indian Removal Act of 1830. This act forced Native Americans to leave their own land in the southeastern part of the United States and walk half way across the country. The majority of this walk occurred during the winter months. Without adequate food, shelter, or clothing, death was common.
During the late nineteenth century, it was a common belief that Native Americans needed to be "civilized" by assimilating them into the culture of the majority (meaning caucasians). Boarding schools aimed to "civilize" young Native American children became common, emphasizing a practice of removing Native American children from their families and placing them in these schools in an effort to force them to learn "white ways". Children were discouraged from (and often abused for) using their native languages or practices. Combined with multiple other governmental policies, it becomes easier to see how hundreds of unique cultures have been lost.
And lest we forget the wonderful "reservation" idea...does anyone else find it ironic that the one place the government dumped these people was, at the time, the driest, dustiest, most useless piece of land in the country? There were several jokes circulating around Thanksgiving time about celebrating the holiday by walking into one's neighbor's home and announcing you've moved in and they need to move out. My personal favorite was my husband's idea, in which I, being white, would yell "Manifest Destiny!" as he and my children began the long hike back to Oklahoma. (In case you're unfamiliar, Manifest Destiny was a concept created by our government in the 19th century which basically announced we were entitled to take any and all lands from anyone, because we were chosen by God. Apparently we were pretty special.)
Thanksgiving is an ambivalent time for me. As a child, I remember participating in the traditional "Pilgrim and Indian" play at school and the feast. I was pleased by how nice the Indians had been to us white folk. It was really great they provided us with food to eat and we could be friends. It wasn't until years later that I came to understand that these same tribes who had extended their hands in friendship were given blankets infected with smallpox (a disease new to Native Americans and devastatingly deadly), increasingly forced out of their homes and their land through deceptive treaties and just outright lies, and to this day are one of the single most underrepresented groups in the country when it comes to governmental policy.
So how do you raise a Native American child when you're a white parent at Thanksgiving? You talk about reality. You talk about morality and ethics. You talk about the heart of the first thanksgiving, and the true nature of thankfulness and kindness. You point out that the right thing to do is always right, even when other people do the wrong thing. And you don't lie. Ever.
We enjoy turkey like everyone else, and we have a lot to be thankful for. Love and one another top the list. But we don't participate in a rose-colored glasses look at the horrific treatment of a group of individuals that are easy to love one day of the year.
After all, my kids are Native American all year long.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
A Little Story About Immunizations...
Let me tell you a story.
First, I have to start off by giving props to all of my friends with babies and toddlers. And goodness, there's a lot of them. I keep up with a lot of people with the miracle of Facebook, and I love it. Without it, I would miss out on seeing so many miracles every day. Because I know so many people with little ones two and under, it seems that every few days I also hear a new mother lament about the pain her baby is going to go through in receiving a vaccination. Most moms are genuinely concerned about the pain their baby will suffer, the discomfort and possible side effects of fever or muscle soreness. And then there's the general mom-ness of not wanting your child to feel any pain. Hey, most parents feel that way. Who wants their kid to go around hurting...especially a tiny baby or a little toddler?
So here's my story:
Once upon a time there was a husband and wife who agreed to care for two children who had nowhere else to go. The first child was a preschooler, and lived with them for a few months before the second one came. The new parents were worried about doing everything right. They took the oldest child to the doctor, to therapists, to preschool, and tried to offer him everything a small boy could need.
A couple of months passed and it was Christmas time. The boy's sister arrived on Christmas Eve, a tiny toddler with a mop of curly hair and large doe eyes. The boy was thrilled to see his sister again. Both children were excited by the tree, receiving gifts and being with family. Their new mom and dad had received their paperwork by now and everything seemed to be in order. There was only one problem, the parents realized. Their newest little child hadn't had any vaccinations since birth. She had received one immunization--the one given immediately after birth--but none since then, and she was nearly two.
Two years behind in her immunizations.
This frightened the new parents tremendously. Their precious child was going to be attending child care, playing on playgrounds, and being exposed to all sorts of germs and viruses. They knew that the potential for catching one of these illnesses existed, and many of them could permanently damage or kill her. So they formulated a plan. Two days after Christmas, they would take the child to receive her first round of immunizations.
The mother somehow got nominated for this job. (To this day I'm not sure how that happened, but that's how the story goes). She took the little tot to the doctor's office and filled out the forms, giving the doctor copies of custody orders and the extremely blank-looking shot record. Fortunately, the doctor's office was very kind to the new mother and assured her they would be as gentle as they could with the child, and combine as many immunizations as they could so there were fewer sticks.
The mother breathed a sigh of relief. Fewer sticks. That was good! How many sticks, exactly, would the child need today? After all, the mother had only known this child for three days.
The nurse smiled gently. "We can do it in five today," she said.
Yes. Five needles in a toddler in one session.
The mother held the child close and tried to comfort her. The little girl cried with each poke. It was heartbreaking for this new mother, whose child hardly knew her and didn't trust her. Certainly, thought the mother, this experience wasn't building trust in their relationship. The nurse used her kindest voice and gave fun bandaids to the child, and by the time the five shots were over, the child was sniffling. So was the mother. The mother carried her new toddler out to the car, buckled her in, and drove her home. But she never forgot that day, and having to force her child to do something because it was in her best interest, even though in the short term it was painful.
I'm sure you've probably figured out that mother was me, and that child was my daughter. I would never try to tell a parent they aren't entitled to worry about their child's immunizations. But I learned early on that sucking it up and biting my upper lip in certain situations made a lot more sense than allowing me or my child to wallow in fear or pity. There would be plenty of opportunities in the future--and ones that were far more painful--for wallowing.
I don't know if this helps or hurts for parents who are struggling with these moments. I wish there had been a mom there when I first got my kids to tell me to let it go, that it wasn't worth worrying about. To help me put it in perspective. However, I'm still learning to do that...so maybe it's a lesson that continues throughout life.
First, I have to start off by giving props to all of my friends with babies and toddlers. And goodness, there's a lot of them. I keep up with a lot of people with the miracle of Facebook, and I love it. Without it, I would miss out on seeing so many miracles every day. Because I know so many people with little ones two and under, it seems that every few days I also hear a new mother lament about the pain her baby is going to go through in receiving a vaccination. Most moms are genuinely concerned about the pain their baby will suffer, the discomfort and possible side effects of fever or muscle soreness. And then there's the general mom-ness of not wanting your child to feel any pain. Hey, most parents feel that way. Who wants their kid to go around hurting...especially a tiny baby or a little toddler?
So here's my story:
Once upon a time there was a husband and wife who agreed to care for two children who had nowhere else to go. The first child was a preschooler, and lived with them for a few months before the second one came. The new parents were worried about doing everything right. They took the oldest child to the doctor, to therapists, to preschool, and tried to offer him everything a small boy could need.
A couple of months passed and it was Christmas time. The boy's sister arrived on Christmas Eve, a tiny toddler with a mop of curly hair and large doe eyes. The boy was thrilled to see his sister again. Both children were excited by the tree, receiving gifts and being with family. Their new mom and dad had received their paperwork by now and everything seemed to be in order. There was only one problem, the parents realized. Their newest little child hadn't had any vaccinations since birth. She had received one immunization--the one given immediately after birth--but none since then, and she was nearly two.
Two years behind in her immunizations.
This frightened the new parents tremendously. Their precious child was going to be attending child care, playing on playgrounds, and being exposed to all sorts of germs and viruses. They knew that the potential for catching one of these illnesses existed, and many of them could permanently damage or kill her. So they formulated a plan. Two days after Christmas, they would take the child to receive her first round of immunizations.
The mother somehow got nominated for this job. (To this day I'm not sure how that happened, but that's how the story goes). She took the little tot to the doctor's office and filled out the forms, giving the doctor copies of custody orders and the extremely blank-looking shot record. Fortunately, the doctor's office was very kind to the new mother and assured her they would be as gentle as they could with the child, and combine as many immunizations as they could so there were fewer sticks.
The mother breathed a sigh of relief. Fewer sticks. That was good! How many sticks, exactly, would the child need today? After all, the mother had only known this child for three days.
The nurse smiled gently. "We can do it in five today," she said.
Yes. Five needles in a toddler in one session.
The mother held the child close and tried to comfort her. The little girl cried with each poke. It was heartbreaking for this new mother, whose child hardly knew her and didn't trust her. Certainly, thought the mother, this experience wasn't building trust in their relationship. The nurse used her kindest voice and gave fun bandaids to the child, and by the time the five shots were over, the child was sniffling. So was the mother. The mother carried her new toddler out to the car, buckled her in, and drove her home. But she never forgot that day, and having to force her child to do something because it was in her best interest, even though in the short term it was painful.
I'm sure you've probably figured out that mother was me, and that child was my daughter. I would never try to tell a parent they aren't entitled to worry about their child's immunizations. But I learned early on that sucking it up and biting my upper lip in certain situations made a lot more sense than allowing me or my child to wallow in fear or pity. There would be plenty of opportunities in the future--and ones that were far more painful--for wallowing.
I don't know if this helps or hurts for parents who are struggling with these moments. I wish there had been a mom there when I first got my kids to tell me to let it go, that it wasn't worth worrying about. To help me put it in perspective. However, I'm still learning to do that...so maybe it's a lesson that continues throughout life.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
A Bit of Laughter Each Day...
When I was twenty-three, I had a part-time job teaching preschool in a classroom of two-and three-year olds. I was one of the afternoon teachers, and the morning teachers were a dynamic mother/daughter team who worked extremely well together. To this day, I'm still a bit jealous of how close those two were--I don't think I could work in such close proximity with my mother on a daily basis! They team-taught a group of twenty little ones, and the amount I learned from them was tremendous. I'm sure I'll write lots of posts about the knowledge they imparted to me--the mother, as an amazing mentor, and the daughter, eventually as one of my closest friends (truly a soul sister in this life to this day)--but today, I wanted to write about something they taught me that I carried with me throughout the rest of my career, and hopefully always will.
Laughter.
You see, before I had the experience of working with these two women, I had worked in several childcares. Childcare can be a fun place, but it can also be scary. If you've hunted for a childcare for your own child, or worked in one that wasn't terrific, you know what I'm talking about. I have seen things go on in childcare that I don't want to get into right now but frightened me enough to choose the highest-rated care for my own children and do unannounced visits regularly. But the main thing that hardly ever happened in most of the places I worked was seeing adults laugh. Adults were stressed. Adults were managing chaos and trying to get through the day. Adults were worried about licensing visits, breaking up arguments, managing too many children, changing too many diapers.
And then I met these two women.
I don't remember the exact moment when I realized this situation was different. I knew the mother was sizing me up. The daughter seemed less interested in that, and more interested in planning, as well as in her little toddler in another room. It wasn't until I had the opportunity to do some work in the classroom that I realized something was different here. When one of the kids made a mistake, the adults looked at each other, laughed, and helped to clean it up. When the kids said something funny, it was actually funny to everyone. When somebody wasn't clear on what they were to do, everyone enjoyed a good laugh and directions got clarified. Nobody was put down or annoyed. Nobody was frustrated and irritated. There was an attitude of laughter, of love of life. I hadn't know working with children could be like that before.
Children do annoying things every day. As a matter of fact, I've been told by my teenagers (and sometimes other adults) that I do annoying things as well--although I'm not as convinced, but whatever. But children also do funny things, just like we do. Two days ago my mother, my daughter, and I were cleaning out some of my grandmother's old kitchen items. My grandmother passed away in 1999, so it was long overdue. My eleven year old kept announcing that we needed to take these things to "Antiques Rodeo Show" and make some money. When I truly couldn't contain my inner laughter any longer, I finally explained to her there was no rodeo; it was a ROAD show. After I had a good laugh, as did my mom, my daughter grinned, shrugged her shoulders, and said, "Oh, whatever, Mom!"
Laughter makes me a good teacher. If I can't laugh with my kids then what's the point? How much fun would we be if we didn't make each other laugh? Figuring out what's amusing to a three-year old is part of the fun in teaching them. Certain things are universally hilarious--knowing you're smarter than your teacher, saying the word "butt", playing chase, are all funny when you're three. When you're almost five, insane knock-knock jokes that make absolutely no sense are the bomb. My job isn't to point out that the joke made no sense; it's to rejoice in the fact that these kids have a hilarious sense of humor and THINK they've mastered something that they haven't yet, but are on the road to doing.
Every parent has a bajillion stories of the hilarious things their kids have done. My kids tended to do gross but funny things, so I won't share them here (in case someone has a weak stomach!). But suffice it to say that once I got over the shock that a person could actually perform certain acts, they were insanely funny and very memorable. And the fact I'm a teacher helps me be reminded that MY kids aren't the only ones with a weird sense of humor.
Laugh, laugh, laugh. Life is good with it.
Thanks for reading, click the links (those pennies add up!) and leave your comments below. If for some reason you can't leave a comment, please feel free to leave it on my facebook page (Michelle Brown) or at my email (vagrlnok@aol.com). I love to read what you're thinking!
Laughter.
You see, before I had the experience of working with these two women, I had worked in several childcares. Childcare can be a fun place, but it can also be scary. If you've hunted for a childcare for your own child, or worked in one that wasn't terrific, you know what I'm talking about. I have seen things go on in childcare that I don't want to get into right now but frightened me enough to choose the highest-rated care for my own children and do unannounced visits regularly. But the main thing that hardly ever happened in most of the places I worked was seeing adults laugh. Adults were stressed. Adults were managing chaos and trying to get through the day. Adults were worried about licensing visits, breaking up arguments, managing too many children, changing too many diapers.
And then I met these two women.
I don't remember the exact moment when I realized this situation was different. I knew the mother was sizing me up. The daughter seemed less interested in that, and more interested in planning, as well as in her little toddler in another room. It wasn't until I had the opportunity to do some work in the classroom that I realized something was different here. When one of the kids made a mistake, the adults looked at each other, laughed, and helped to clean it up. When the kids said something funny, it was actually funny to everyone. When somebody wasn't clear on what they were to do, everyone enjoyed a good laugh and directions got clarified. Nobody was put down or annoyed. Nobody was frustrated and irritated. There was an attitude of laughter, of love of life. I hadn't know working with children could be like that before.
Children do annoying things every day. As a matter of fact, I've been told by my teenagers (and sometimes other adults) that I do annoying things as well--although I'm not as convinced, but whatever. But children also do funny things, just like we do. Two days ago my mother, my daughter, and I were cleaning out some of my grandmother's old kitchen items. My grandmother passed away in 1999, so it was long overdue. My eleven year old kept announcing that we needed to take these things to "Antiques Rodeo Show" and make some money. When I truly couldn't contain my inner laughter any longer, I finally explained to her there was no rodeo; it was a ROAD show. After I had a good laugh, as did my mom, my daughter grinned, shrugged her shoulders, and said, "Oh, whatever, Mom!"
Laughter makes me a good teacher. If I can't laugh with my kids then what's the point? How much fun would we be if we didn't make each other laugh? Figuring out what's amusing to a three-year old is part of the fun in teaching them. Certain things are universally hilarious--knowing you're smarter than your teacher, saying the word "butt", playing chase, are all funny when you're three. When you're almost five, insane knock-knock jokes that make absolutely no sense are the bomb. My job isn't to point out that the joke made no sense; it's to rejoice in the fact that these kids have a hilarious sense of humor and THINK they've mastered something that they haven't yet, but are on the road to doing.
Every parent has a bajillion stories of the hilarious things their kids have done. My kids tended to do gross but funny things, so I won't share them here (in case someone has a weak stomach!). But suffice it to say that once I got over the shock that a person could actually perform certain acts, they were insanely funny and very memorable. And the fact I'm a teacher helps me be reminded that MY kids aren't the only ones with a weird sense of humor.
Laugh, laugh, laugh. Life is good with it.
Thanks for reading, click the links (those pennies add up!) and leave your comments below. If for some reason you can't leave a comment, please feel free to leave it on my facebook page (Michelle Brown) or at my email (vagrlnok@aol.com). I love to read what you're thinking!
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Monsters and Nighttime
Ah, sleep.
It's probably one of my favorite pasttimes. Give me the opportunity to take a nice, pleasant nap and I'm on it. I try to get the recommended eight hours each night. Some nights I'm successful but some I'm not. I've mentioned before that both of my children have histories of neglect from their biological home, and those fears don't go away at a certain age. I still have a thirteen year old with sleep disturbances and an eleven year old who has frequent nightmares. So alas, our situation is a wee bit different from most families with kids their ages.
I remember when I was a little girl, my bedroom was right across the hall from my parents'. When I was about six, I had seen an episode of the Bionic Woman (yeah, I know I just dated myself) where she was chasing after Bigfoot. In my six-year old mind, Bigfoot was very real. In fact, he was so real that he showed up outside of my window, in the shadows, in the middle of that very night! I booked it into my parents' room and ended up sleeping between them. If they had turned me away I don't know what I would have done. I was truly panicked and believed--in the way only a child can believe--that Bigfoot really was about to get me.
Today I was perusing the internet and came across this mini film: http://www.snagfilms.com/films/title/lieve_monster_sweet_monster/?icid=main%7Cwelcome%7Cdl8%7Csec1_lnk3%7C185318
It's only about five minutes long, but chronicles the nighttime fear of Davide, a preschooler, who is convinced there is a monster in his room. His parents are responsive and Daddy continues to try to tuck him in bed and settle him down repeatedly. But Davide continues to come back over and over again, with stories of how the monster has reappeared; how he has changed positions in the room; how he won't respond to what Davide tells him; and finally how he is a "sweet" monster. It is then that Davide speaks the most truthful words of the whole film: I don't like the dark. I don't want my door shut. And the implied: being alone in the dark scares me.
A huge part of working with and parenting young children is beginning to learn and understand how they think. Davide is a clever little boy. He knows there's no monster, but he also knows he has a sensitive Daddy who will respond if he thinks his little boy is scared. Only once the jig is up does he come clean with the truth--Daddy, don't leave me alone in the dark.
Most of us have had experiences that have scared us in the dark at some point. Even as an adult, I'm not crazy about things that go bump in the night. Weird noises, houses settling, whatever--it always gives me an icky feeling in my gut. As the wife of a man who often worked twelve-hour night shifts at a local hospital, I became used to spending the night alone, and later, with my children. But there were still nights where something would frighten me, I would lose sleep...and it sucked.
Sometimes in an effort to raise strong, resilient children, we expect things from our kids that even we as adults have a hard time delivering. Perhaps my own nighttime fears have made me more sensitive to the dreams of my daughter, or to the fear of sleeping that my son has. My children are no longer little, but I have confidence that despite their nighttime fears, they WILL be able to sleep comfortably one day as adults...at least on most nights.
If you're a parent who is struggling with a child who struggles with sleep, remember this: a LOT of parents are in your position. It's hard and it's exhausting. But listen for the message behind the words. Usually it's a deep rooted fear of the dark, of being separated from the people you love and are with during the day.
And here's one final trick. If you can't beat that imaginative thinking, join it. I have a fantastic recipe for "monster spray" that is guaranteed to get rid of monsters of all kinds. Mix up the following ingredients and help your child spray it in any place monsters or scary creatures may be hiding. It has a 100% success rate--and yes, kids really believe this works.
1 spray bottle (you can decorate it with your child--sharpies and stickers work well)
glitter
food coloring (just a drop)
water
Mix it up and spray away, and watch those monsters stay at bay!
It's probably one of my favorite pasttimes. Give me the opportunity to take a nice, pleasant nap and I'm on it. I try to get the recommended eight hours each night. Some nights I'm successful but some I'm not. I've mentioned before that both of my children have histories of neglect from their biological home, and those fears don't go away at a certain age. I still have a thirteen year old with sleep disturbances and an eleven year old who has frequent nightmares. So alas, our situation is a wee bit different from most families with kids their ages.
I remember when I was a little girl, my bedroom was right across the hall from my parents'. When I was about six, I had seen an episode of the Bionic Woman (yeah, I know I just dated myself) where she was chasing after Bigfoot. In my six-year old mind, Bigfoot was very real. In fact, he was so real that he showed up outside of my window, in the shadows, in the middle of that very night! I booked it into my parents' room and ended up sleeping between them. If they had turned me away I don't know what I would have done. I was truly panicked and believed--in the way only a child can believe--that Bigfoot really was about to get me.
Today I was perusing the internet and came across this mini film: http://www.snagfilms.com/films/title/lieve_monster_sweet_monster/?icid=main%7Cwelcome%7Cdl8%7Csec1_lnk3%7C185318
It's only about five minutes long, but chronicles the nighttime fear of Davide, a preschooler, who is convinced there is a monster in his room. His parents are responsive and Daddy continues to try to tuck him in bed and settle him down repeatedly. But Davide continues to come back over and over again, with stories of how the monster has reappeared; how he has changed positions in the room; how he won't respond to what Davide tells him; and finally how he is a "sweet" monster. It is then that Davide speaks the most truthful words of the whole film: I don't like the dark. I don't want my door shut. And the implied: being alone in the dark scares me.
A huge part of working with and parenting young children is beginning to learn and understand how they think. Davide is a clever little boy. He knows there's no monster, but he also knows he has a sensitive Daddy who will respond if he thinks his little boy is scared. Only once the jig is up does he come clean with the truth--Daddy, don't leave me alone in the dark.
Most of us have had experiences that have scared us in the dark at some point. Even as an adult, I'm not crazy about things that go bump in the night. Weird noises, houses settling, whatever--it always gives me an icky feeling in my gut. As the wife of a man who often worked twelve-hour night shifts at a local hospital, I became used to spending the night alone, and later, with my children. But there were still nights where something would frighten me, I would lose sleep...and it sucked.
Sometimes in an effort to raise strong, resilient children, we expect things from our kids that even we as adults have a hard time delivering. Perhaps my own nighttime fears have made me more sensitive to the dreams of my daughter, or to the fear of sleeping that my son has. My children are no longer little, but I have confidence that despite their nighttime fears, they WILL be able to sleep comfortably one day as adults...at least on most nights.
If you're a parent who is struggling with a child who struggles with sleep, remember this: a LOT of parents are in your position. It's hard and it's exhausting. But listen for the message behind the words. Usually it's a deep rooted fear of the dark, of being separated from the people you love and are with during the day.
And here's one final trick. If you can't beat that imaginative thinking, join it. I have a fantastic recipe for "monster spray" that is guaranteed to get rid of monsters of all kinds. Mix up the following ingredients and help your child spray it in any place monsters or scary creatures may be hiding. It has a 100% success rate--and yes, kids really believe this works.
1 spray bottle (you can decorate it with your child--sharpies and stickers work well)
glitter
food coloring (just a drop)
water
Mix it up and spray away, and watch those monsters stay at bay!
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Who Do You Want To Be Today?
One of my former students who is now teaching was talking about a little boy in her class. He announced to her today that he was no longer his former self. Instead, he was Ironman. And he stayed Ironman all day.
If you've worked with or lived with young children, you recognize this stage of development. Imagination is at its peak and children often assume different roles. In fact, that's the point of dramatic play--to try out different roles and see what it would be like to be a mommy, a baby, a daddy, a police officer, a firefighter, a librarian (okay, so not a lot of kids pick that one, but I'm sure somebody has). One year when I was teaching, we had set up our dramatic play center as a house, complete with a bed. The children proceeded to conduct a funeral, where one child had died (and had some lovely plastic carnations placed in her hands) as everyone else stood around and said nice things about her.
Dramatic play serves multiple purposes. Not only does it allow children to try on roles, it also allows them to work through situations that they don't yet understand. Events such as funerals can be confusing and even frightening to young children, but by reenacting the event, they gain control over what is going on and build their confidence, lessening their fear. After the horrific events of 9/11, teachers across the nation saw a huge increase in this type of behavior. Paintings done by young children often contained fiery colors or large burning buildings. In my own classroom, some of my children built very tall towers and crashed them down with "planes" (other blocks). They repeated these play themes for days and even weeks, until the fear was lessened and they felt some control over their world again.
Every year that I've taught, I've had at least one child who has come in at some point in the year announcing that he or she has changed his/her name. I've met some interesting characters, including Batman, Robin Hood, Ironman, Diamond, and Thomas the Train. In my early years of teaching, and in an effort of encouraging creativity, I would try to actively play along. Our children wore name tags at school, and I actually created a new one for "Diamond" when she asked me to. Diamond came to school for several weeks before she returned to her former self. As I got older (and probably a bit more pragmatic) I would have times that many of my students would announce they had new names, and so I would tell them it was nice to hear that, but my old brain had trouble keeping up, so if I called them by their other name, I appreciated them understanding. Usually they would grin at me and say, "okay." After all, it's always fun to think you're way smarter than your teacher. That doesn't stop for your whole life either, by the way, but that's another post.
Anyway, back to the beginning of this post...it got me thinking, if you could be anybody today, who would YOU be? Why should children have the corner on getting to pretend and change who they are? Can't we all do that to some extent? Some people do it as their careers--actors, police officers, even teachers at times--but we all have the ability to explore role play. So what if you're SuperFamily tonight and all fly to the dinner table? Just avoid the kryptonite. Be Batman with your kid and go build something in your basement. When I was a little girl, I would pretend I was Wonder Woman and put on my bathing suit, red galoshes, and a cape and go play with my friends. Not that I'm recommending anyone go scare their neighbors, but why not try something on that's a little different? Promise, your kids will love it--and you might too.
If you've worked with or lived with young children, you recognize this stage of development. Imagination is at its peak and children often assume different roles. In fact, that's the point of dramatic play--to try out different roles and see what it would be like to be a mommy, a baby, a daddy, a police officer, a firefighter, a librarian (okay, so not a lot of kids pick that one, but I'm sure somebody has). One year when I was teaching, we had set up our dramatic play center as a house, complete with a bed. The children proceeded to conduct a funeral, where one child had died (and had some lovely plastic carnations placed in her hands) as everyone else stood around and said nice things about her.
Dramatic play serves multiple purposes. Not only does it allow children to try on roles, it also allows them to work through situations that they don't yet understand. Events such as funerals can be confusing and even frightening to young children, but by reenacting the event, they gain control over what is going on and build their confidence, lessening their fear. After the horrific events of 9/11, teachers across the nation saw a huge increase in this type of behavior. Paintings done by young children often contained fiery colors or large burning buildings. In my own classroom, some of my children built very tall towers and crashed them down with "planes" (other blocks). They repeated these play themes for days and even weeks, until the fear was lessened and they felt some control over their world again.
Every year that I've taught, I've had at least one child who has come in at some point in the year announcing that he or she has changed his/her name. I've met some interesting characters, including Batman, Robin Hood, Ironman, Diamond, and Thomas the Train. In my early years of teaching, and in an effort of encouraging creativity, I would try to actively play along. Our children wore name tags at school, and I actually created a new one for "Diamond" when she asked me to. Diamond came to school for several weeks before she returned to her former self. As I got older (and probably a bit more pragmatic) I would have times that many of my students would announce they had new names, and so I would tell them it was nice to hear that, but my old brain had trouble keeping up, so if I called them by their other name, I appreciated them understanding. Usually they would grin at me and say, "okay." After all, it's always fun to think you're way smarter than your teacher. That doesn't stop for your whole life either, by the way, but that's another post.
Anyway, back to the beginning of this post...it got me thinking, if you could be anybody today, who would YOU be? Why should children have the corner on getting to pretend and change who they are? Can't we all do that to some extent? Some people do it as their careers--actors, police officers, even teachers at times--but we all have the ability to explore role play. So what if you're SuperFamily tonight and all fly to the dinner table? Just avoid the kryptonite. Be Batman with your kid and go build something in your basement. When I was a little girl, I would pretend I was Wonder Woman and put on my bathing suit, red galoshes, and a cape and go play with my friends. Not that I'm recommending anyone go scare their neighbors, but why not try something on that's a little different? Promise, your kids will love it--and you might too.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Dress Pants and Expectations
I think I'm going to rename this "The Bitching Blog".
Actually, that title would be a bit unfair to myself, and certainly to everyone who reads and comments, because I do feel the majority of things I post on here are very relevant and fair without going too far overboard. But right now I'm seeing red...or more accurately, black.
My daughter auditioned for what they call "select chorus" in her school. It's basically a show choir--the children travel to different places and perform. She was placed in chorus at the beginning of the year not by her choice, but by the school as one of her electives.
Last night, she came home from a school event at 6:30 and announced that she had made select chorus. We were thrilled! Then she announced that she needed black dress pants and black dress shoes by 8:30 this morning.
I sent her teacher an email and explained that we were unaware of this need until last night and I apologized for the inability to provide her with black pants. After I sent the email, I checked out the chorus website at the school, and yep, there it was--dress uniform required. It's been listed since September. Go, me.
I received a terse email from her teacher this morning that began with no heading, no greeting, merely a "the dress uniform was outlined in the syllabus and is required. She will not be able to participate if she does not have one." To her credit, the teacher said she would look around and see if she had an extra.
For years I've been on the other side of the fence. I've been the teacher with kids who show up with no diapers, no warm coat on cold days, no appropriate shoes or change of clothing or backpack. When I taught public school, I considered myself lucky if my kids showed up in person, never mind bringing supplies. I would feel that annoyance in my gut when I'd see little Timmy coming to school in a light windbreaker on a 30-degree day. But hey, that's why we had an extra coat supply, and we used it. It just wasn't worth getting upset about, because there was nothing you could DO about it. I can't be at twenty kids' houses at seven a.m. and dress them, nor should I. So they show up how they show up, and we work with it.
And now I'm on the other end of the fence, trying to manage two kids in middle school, each taking seven classes (or is it eight? Even I don't know for sure). Each class has a syllabus, and most of them asked for the syllabus to be signed and returned on the second day of school. Despite my amazing psychic powers (as well as my jotting notes crazily with pen and paper), I did not catch every supply from fourteen (or sixteen?) different classes that my kids needed. (Just so you don't think I suck, they do this weird A/B schedule where some classes meet every day and some every other day. I just look at the grades.)
And I'm aggravated.
I want to meet my children's teachers halfway. I want my kids to do well in school. But at what point do we put so much expectation on parents that it's downright difficult to do? I consider myself relatively smart and resourceful, but this one got right past me like a bird heading south for the winter. And I can't help but wonder how difficult it would have been to just send a freaking note home at the end of last week. Heck, I would have even settled for a mass email.
The fact of the matter is that everyone--parents, teachers, and kids--are pushed beyond maximum capacity these days. Expectations fly high on every side of the fence. And when expectations are so high and people disappoint, then for some reason human beings seem to feel they have the right to be downright short, or even rude.
So hey chorus lady, don't get your panties in a wad. The kid will be there with her pants and shoes and shirt by December 7, the next date for a performance (thanks for letting me know that today, by the way, because I couldn't find it anywhere else). And you'd get a lot farther with parents if you wrote with a little respect (saying hello, goodbye, or even signing your name) than acting as if I were a kid you'd love to send to in-school suspension--even if you feel like you would.
There now. I said what I wanted to say, and we can all go back to our day. Have a good one, and whatever you do, don't forget your dress pants.
Actually, that title would be a bit unfair to myself, and certainly to everyone who reads and comments, because I do feel the majority of things I post on here are very relevant and fair without going too far overboard. But right now I'm seeing red...or more accurately, black.
My daughter auditioned for what they call "select chorus" in her school. It's basically a show choir--the children travel to different places and perform. She was placed in chorus at the beginning of the year not by her choice, but by the school as one of her electives.
Last night, she came home from a school event at 6:30 and announced that she had made select chorus. We were thrilled! Then she announced that she needed black dress pants and black dress shoes by 8:30 this morning.
I sent her teacher an email and explained that we were unaware of this need until last night and I apologized for the inability to provide her with black pants. After I sent the email, I checked out the chorus website at the school, and yep, there it was--dress uniform required. It's been listed since September. Go, me.
I received a terse email from her teacher this morning that began with no heading, no greeting, merely a "the dress uniform was outlined in the syllabus and is required. She will not be able to participate if she does not have one." To her credit, the teacher said she would look around and see if she had an extra.
For years I've been on the other side of the fence. I've been the teacher with kids who show up with no diapers, no warm coat on cold days, no appropriate shoes or change of clothing or backpack. When I taught public school, I considered myself lucky if my kids showed up in person, never mind bringing supplies. I would feel that annoyance in my gut when I'd see little Timmy coming to school in a light windbreaker on a 30-degree day. But hey, that's why we had an extra coat supply, and we used it. It just wasn't worth getting upset about, because there was nothing you could DO about it. I can't be at twenty kids' houses at seven a.m. and dress them, nor should I. So they show up how they show up, and we work with it.
And now I'm on the other end of the fence, trying to manage two kids in middle school, each taking seven classes (or is it eight? Even I don't know for sure). Each class has a syllabus, and most of them asked for the syllabus to be signed and returned on the second day of school. Despite my amazing psychic powers (as well as my jotting notes crazily with pen and paper), I did not catch every supply from fourteen (or sixteen?) different classes that my kids needed. (Just so you don't think I suck, they do this weird A/B schedule where some classes meet every day and some every other day. I just look at the grades.)
And I'm aggravated.
I want to meet my children's teachers halfway. I want my kids to do well in school. But at what point do we put so much expectation on parents that it's downright difficult to do? I consider myself relatively smart and resourceful, but this one got right past me like a bird heading south for the winter. And I can't help but wonder how difficult it would have been to just send a freaking note home at the end of last week. Heck, I would have even settled for a mass email.
The fact of the matter is that everyone--parents, teachers, and kids--are pushed beyond maximum capacity these days. Expectations fly high on every side of the fence. And when expectations are so high and people disappoint, then for some reason human beings seem to feel they have the right to be downright short, or even rude.
So hey chorus lady, don't get your panties in a wad. The kid will be there with her pants and shoes and shirt by December 7, the next date for a performance (thanks for letting me know that today, by the way, because I couldn't find it anywhere else). And you'd get a lot farther with parents if you wrote with a little respect (saying hello, goodbye, or even signing your name) than acting as if I were a kid you'd love to send to in-school suspension--even if you feel like you would.
There now. I said what I wanted to say, and we can all go back to our day. Have a good one, and whatever you do, don't forget your dress pants.
Monday, November 15, 2010
School Sucks!!!
My heart is breaking a little.
One of the children I used to teach has announced to his parents that he now "hates school". He's in kindergarten.
What, you ask, could possibly make a child hate kindergarten? Isn't that the grade where you go and play with stuff? You learn to make friends and learn the alphabet and eat fun snacks? You get to play on the playground and only stay for part of the day? Your teachers are nice and you get to use cool stuff like crayons and markers and scissors and glue all day? That's how it was when I was in kindergarten. In fact, one of my fondest memories is of my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Manix. (I could be spelling her name wrong, but cut me some slack...I was only five and it was a long time ago!) Anyway, she was the coolest person on the planet in my book. I LOVED Mrs. Manix. She had a Ronald McDonald doll, and when it was your special day, you got to go check the weather and dress old Ronald appropriately. On MY day, it was raining, and I got to put on his raincoat. Heh. Score.
Anyway, when I heard recently that my sweet little friend--the same exuberant, creative, fun-loving child I had taught for multiple years--was now saying he hated school, my heart broke a little bit. I think that happens to most adults when they finally hear the dreaded words from their children's mouths: "I hate school." We like to believe that if teachers are doing their jobs correctly, and parents are doing theirs, we can avoid that attitude. And I believe, to some extent, we can. My youngest child was ten before she ever mentioned not liking school, and hers stemmed from peer pressure. When I asked her why she didn't like school, her answer was along the lines of, "Well, Tammy and Lisa and Margaret don't like it either. And Mrs. Blue makes us do WORK!" (Oh horror! And yes, the names have been changed to protect the innocent from my daughter's accusations ;-)) My son, however, was three weeks into his first public school experience when he began coming home from school in tears and begging not to go back.
Difference in resiliency? Possibly. Difference in personality? Absolutely. Difference in school experience? You bet. You see, my son's teacher spent the majority of the day with over twenty first graders sitting at seats, unable to do anything but write and answer her drills. There were no group activities, no social activities, no hands-on learning. Whereas my daughter had teachers who engaged her cognitively by using multiple types of learning strategies (games, group activities, independent activities, physical movement, etc.), my son had a teacher who utilized two strategies--independent work (completing worksheets) and drilling sounds and words. You know, she said the word and he said it back. She said the sound and he said it back. On curriculum night, I was only there for forty-five minutes and I was ready to tear my own eyes out of my sockets and shove them in my ears to end it all.
Which brings me all back to my little friend who, in kindergarten, hates school. How does that happen, again? Sometimes I worry that the kind of teaching we do in preschool--emergent curriculum that encourages children's curiosity, questions, and thinking--sets them up for painful public school experiences. It's difficult to go from an environment where your questions and creativity are not only seen as assets but encouraged to one where the expectation involves warming a seat for multiple hours. It's hard to go from having a teacher who answers your challenges with, "That's a good idea...let's try that," to one who sees challenges as defiance. And it's hard, as a parent, to move from a classroom that focuses on a home-like environment to a more sterile space with more children, fewer teachers, and less intimate communication.
I don't know how to solve the problem of helping little ones to like school. Obviously it's a complex issue that involves a lot of dedication on many levels. In my fantasy world, schools would be geared around children's needs instead of governmental agendas; teachers would be trained to understand children's perspectives and recognize that social and emotional development is as critical as cognitive development; classrooms would be supplied with everything they needed without elaborate fundraising schemes or bake sales; parents would partner with teachers willingly and easily to establish and reach goals for each child; and every child would come to public school ready to learn. But regardless of whatever national or state laws or policies we pass, these things have not happened, and my little friend still has days he hates to go to school.
To him I say this: sometimes we have to learn to work with all kinds of people in all kinds of situations. That's a hard concept for a kindergartner, but it's practice for life. And to every mom and dad out there facing the same situation, know you have a right to advocate for your child. You have the right to insist your child be in a comfortable learning environment where needs are met.
Just know we're not all there yet.
One of the children I used to teach has announced to his parents that he now "hates school". He's in kindergarten.
What, you ask, could possibly make a child hate kindergarten? Isn't that the grade where you go and play with stuff? You learn to make friends and learn the alphabet and eat fun snacks? You get to play on the playground and only stay for part of the day? Your teachers are nice and you get to use cool stuff like crayons and markers and scissors and glue all day? That's how it was when I was in kindergarten. In fact, one of my fondest memories is of my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Manix. (I could be spelling her name wrong, but cut me some slack...I was only five and it was a long time ago!) Anyway, she was the coolest person on the planet in my book. I LOVED Mrs. Manix. She had a Ronald McDonald doll, and when it was your special day, you got to go check the weather and dress old Ronald appropriately. On MY day, it was raining, and I got to put on his raincoat. Heh. Score.
Anyway, when I heard recently that my sweet little friend--the same exuberant, creative, fun-loving child I had taught for multiple years--was now saying he hated school, my heart broke a little bit. I think that happens to most adults when they finally hear the dreaded words from their children's mouths: "I hate school." We like to believe that if teachers are doing their jobs correctly, and parents are doing theirs, we can avoid that attitude. And I believe, to some extent, we can. My youngest child was ten before she ever mentioned not liking school, and hers stemmed from peer pressure. When I asked her why she didn't like school, her answer was along the lines of, "Well, Tammy and Lisa and Margaret don't like it either. And Mrs. Blue makes us do WORK!" (Oh horror! And yes, the names have been changed to protect the innocent from my daughter's accusations ;-)) My son, however, was three weeks into his first public school experience when he began coming home from school in tears and begging not to go back.
Difference in resiliency? Possibly. Difference in personality? Absolutely. Difference in school experience? You bet. You see, my son's teacher spent the majority of the day with over twenty first graders sitting at seats, unable to do anything but write and answer her drills. There were no group activities, no social activities, no hands-on learning. Whereas my daughter had teachers who engaged her cognitively by using multiple types of learning strategies (games, group activities, independent activities, physical movement, etc.), my son had a teacher who utilized two strategies--independent work (completing worksheets) and drilling sounds and words. You know, she said the word and he said it back. She said the sound and he said it back. On curriculum night, I was only there for forty-five minutes and I was ready to tear my own eyes out of my sockets and shove them in my ears to end it all.
Which brings me all back to my little friend who, in kindergarten, hates school. How does that happen, again? Sometimes I worry that the kind of teaching we do in preschool--emergent curriculum that encourages children's curiosity, questions, and thinking--sets them up for painful public school experiences. It's difficult to go from an environment where your questions and creativity are not only seen as assets but encouraged to one where the expectation involves warming a seat for multiple hours. It's hard to go from having a teacher who answers your challenges with, "That's a good idea...let's try that," to one who sees challenges as defiance. And it's hard, as a parent, to move from a classroom that focuses on a home-like environment to a more sterile space with more children, fewer teachers, and less intimate communication.
I don't know how to solve the problem of helping little ones to like school. Obviously it's a complex issue that involves a lot of dedication on many levels. In my fantasy world, schools would be geared around children's needs instead of governmental agendas; teachers would be trained to understand children's perspectives and recognize that social and emotional development is as critical as cognitive development; classrooms would be supplied with everything they needed without elaborate fundraising schemes or bake sales; parents would partner with teachers willingly and easily to establish and reach goals for each child; and every child would come to public school ready to learn. But regardless of whatever national or state laws or policies we pass, these things have not happened, and my little friend still has days he hates to go to school.
To him I say this: sometimes we have to learn to work with all kinds of people in all kinds of situations. That's a hard concept for a kindergartner, but it's practice for life. And to every mom and dad out there facing the same situation, know you have a right to advocate for your child. You have the right to insist your child be in a comfortable learning environment where needs are met.
Just know we're not all there yet.
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