But things come slow or not at all

So, yeah, I am running the #kinderchat summer blogging challenge again this year, and, as usual, I am among the last to post my own response. In the name of full disclosure, I started this draft weeks ago, and have been tug-of-warring with it ever since. But first, the question:

What did you learn this past (or, for our southern hemisphere friends, what ARE you learning this current) school year that you couldn't have learned any other year, from any other students or colleagues or administrators or parents? What lessons did this particular year, this particular setting, these particular children bring into your life?

Oh, Lord. THESE children...??? It has been a while since I had a group like this: a group who exhausted me, pushed me, needed me, questioned me, stretched me so much and so frequently. A group with whom I fell so utterly, completely, and hopelessly in love... In fact, I'm pretty sure the last group like this was not a class at all, but a group of teenagers on the side of a mountain high up in northeastern California. But that is another story, and will be told another time.

This group of kids questioned everything. EVERY. DAMN. THING. Why do we have to do this? Why do it this way? Why do we print letters starting at the top? Do I have to draw a bowl for my goldfish? Can I have a book at rest time? Can sit under the table to do my reading? Can I cut it out and THEN colour, or do I have to colour first? Why do I need to colour first? Why do we stand in a line? Why can't I sit on my knees if I can't see? Can I sit on a chair at circle? Why can't *I* choose my spot for lunch? And they didn't accept a simple "yes" or "no" or "because I said so." Why, Mme? Why not, Mme? I can do it that way at home, Mme, why not here? I was tired. Lord, was I tired. I am still tired. I may always be tired. But from that dark, bone-deep-tiredness has come some lightbulbs: moments of clarity that have changed me, my classroom, my teaching. 

So here: this is my list, far from exhaustive, of the things I learned this year, that only these children, these smart, funny, LOUD, quirky, demanding, stubborn, inquisitive, impatient, messy, sticky, and determined (did I mention LOUD?) children could have taught me.

THINGS LEARNED IN MISS NIGHT'S ROOM, BY MISS NIGHT, THIS YEAR

• Criss-cross-applesauce is overrated.
• Walking in a perfectly straight line is rarely necessary.
• Sitting in a chair to work is not a requirement. Kids can work standing up, or laying down, or crouched over, or squatting.
• The traditional "Today is; Yesterday was; Tomorrow will be..." calendar routine is a waste of 30 minutes. Kindergartners don't conceptualize time that way.
• I am not willing to expend energy to convince a child to complete anything in a workbook.
• In most cases, following the steps of an activity in the exact order I demonstrate is unnecessary.
• In many cases, my demonstration is unnecessary and may be detrimental.
• Most activities that involve use of a photocopier have no place in my classroom.
• If a lesson or activity is going to result in 18 perfectly identical completed projects, I probably have no interest in doing it. 
• Many crafts, no matter how cute, are glorified worksheets.
• Sitting perfectly still is not a reasonable expectation for anyone, never mind an active five-year-old.
• Being perfectly silent is not a reasonable expectation for anyone, never mind an active five-year-old.
• If the children are bored, I am boring.
• If I am boring, I need to change something.
• Bored, disengaged children are MY problem to fix.
• The cure for boredom is engagement, not entertainment.
• If I am going to ask children to do something, I better be able to explain why it matters.
• If I am going to ask children to do something, I better BELIEVE why it matters.
• There is no glory in winning a battle of wills with a five year old.
• There may, however, be danger in LOSING a battle of wills with a five year old.
• If I'm going to have a battle of wills with a five year old,  I better choose it carefully, and be prepared to win.
• Even if it means spending my own lunch break supervising a child who is refusing to put away the train he hurled across the room.
• No matter how many great transition songs I know, sometimes the best way to handle a difficult transition time is to eliminate it. (Ask me about the beauty of the snack centre.)
• Respond as if you are assuming the best, even if you have solid grounds to assume the worst. Assuming, and responding as if,  a child has picked up a stray toy with the intention of putting it away creates an entirely different interaction than assuming she has picked it up to sneak it into her backpack.
• There is always a back-story. The story rarely begins at "He hit me." The question "what happened before that?" is important. The story deserves to be heard.
• If I want them to be calm, I need to be calm.
• There is no shame in announcing to a room of kindergartners that "Mme needs a time-out."
• I teach CHILDREN first. Before the program or the curriculum or the philosophy, my job is to TEACH. CHILDREN.

Important work happens, without a workbook, a photocopier, a chair or even a teacher demonstration.

It surprises me now, reading this list. These are all things that I thought I knew, or that it seems I should have known, long before these kids came along.  Many are things I thought I understood.

So maybe, what these kids taught this teacher is that we all, always, need teachers. It was an honour, a blessing, and a privilege, to be their student.

the other hand that always holds the line

Hello, internet!

So, the last 2 weeks have not been the easiest of times in my classroom. The flu is making its vicious rounds, taking down everyone in its path. Mme Wendy, my aide, was away for 4 days last week, and I was away for 2 days of the week before. We have had between 12 and 15 (out of 20) munchkins at school every day. Most days, we have sent at least one of them home with a fever by lunchtime. The ones who have returned from being ill are often still coughing, irritable, and tired. Having only 60 - 75% of the kids at school on any given day makes it hard to contemplate introducing anything new. And, on top of all that, it has been so bitterly cold that we have had only indoor recess for 5 consecutive days. By Thursday, the bickering had reached record-breaking levels, the whining was shredding my ear drums, the sniffling and coughing and requests to get chapstick/water/coughdrops came in an endless parade. Having no aide meant I got very few breaks. The children were crabby and bored. I was crabby and bored. And there was still Friday to get through. Friday, which happened to be a Day 5, the day during which I have the fewest preps, and the children spend the most time in the classroom, with me. Friday, when the temperature was forecast to drop even further....

To digress for a few paragraphs: if you read my personal blog, you know that I worked at summer camp for a long time. Twelve summers, to be exact, in a situation where the children NEVER GO HOME. Quite some time ago, on that blog, I wrote a post called "Because of Camp". Number 45 on that list was "I know that the best cure for burnout is sometimes to work harder." The story behind that is as follows:

During one of my many summers at camp, I was the Assistant Director, and my dear friend Devil was the Head Counsellor. We had reached the point in the summer where everyone was tired and a little cranky: the adventures of communal living, no privacy, constant grubbiness, were wearing thin. Tempers were short, tears came easily... It was the time of the summer where camp management has to start looking after staff morale, because the staff's mindset, of course, influences the experience they provide to the campers.

One morning, in the lull between breakfast and morning activities, Devil came and asked me if I would please go do a lap of the girls cabins, to make sure the counsellors were getting their campers through cabin cleanup and toothbrushing and finding lost hairbrushes and generally getting themselves and their charges ready for the day in a pleasant and positive manner.

I didn't want to do it. That time of day was one of the ONLY lulls in my own long day. Once activities started, the inevitably gruelling string of questions and phone calls and crises that formed my job description would begin. Those 25 minutes, sitting in my office, still sipping my second cup of tea, might be the only quiet moments of my day. The last thing I wanted to do was start hoofing it up the hill to the girls' cabins, to referee bickering and enforce floor-sweeping. But... Devil was my friend. He and I had worked together, closely, for a long time, and I trusted him. I trusted that, if he was asking me to do something, it really needed to be done. I also knew that, if I had been asking him to do something similar, it would because: a) it really needed to be done, and b) I knew he would do it.

So, reluctantly, grouchily, and SLOWLY, I did it. In my pyjamas and flip-flops, I hoofed it up the hill. I checked on the staff and traded jokes about the quirks of camp life. I found a camper's missing sock. I braided a pigtail or two. I congratulated the teen leadership girls on the particularly glorious mess they had made of their cabin. I got hugs from 8-year-olds and danced the YMCA with 13-year olds. I tied off a frayed friendship bracelet. I got grateful smiles from counselors who were happy to interact with another adult. And, when the loudspeaker announced the beginning of the day's activities, I found myself... refreshed. My 20 minute loop through the girls' cabins had re-connected me to the daily magic of camp. I was smiling, and had more energy than I had had in several days. Working HARDER had helped me overcome burnout that I wasn't even really aware I had.

Clearly, the leap from that dusty California morning, to my frigid classroom last Friday, is not a big one. I knew, as I drove to school, that it HAD to be a good day, for myself as much as for the children. I could not close the week on a sour note. As my monkeys trickled into the coatroom, a parent happened to hand me a big bag of beautiful magazines, to add to our collage bucket. After an amazingly frank circle time discussion about the week we had had, and how we were ALL feeling (guess whose students now understand the expressions "cabin fever" and "stir crazy?"), we started talking about things that make us smile. Out came the magazines, poster boards, glue, scissors. For over and hour, we cut and pasted and giggled and laughed together, finding images that were undeniably smile-worthy: sunshine, ice cream, butterflies, snowmen, puppies, babies, bathtubs, rainbows, flowers, princesses, sports cars, birthday cakes, candles, campfires, beaches, hockey skates, swimming pools, ballerinas, jelly beans, swingsets, flip flops. We filled in any remaining spaces with coloured macaroni, sequins, rhinestones, and blizzards of glitter.

The collages took up most of the morning and part of the afternoon. The mess we made was unbelievable and never-ending. It seemed I did nothing but refill glue containers, find scissors that were "lost" in the pages of a magazine, collect gluestick caps from the floor, and control traffic flow to and from the glitter station, all while replying to a steady stream of "What is butterfly/beach/ballerina in French?". My clothes looked like Tinkerbell had thrown up on them. And yet, it was, honestly, the most engaged I had been with my students all week. When morning snacktime came, my boss offered me a break, and I chose to stay in the room and eat picnic-style on the carpet with the munchkins (the tables being completely covered by the still-in-progress collages) because I LIKED BEING WITH THEM. In the afternoon, we read extra stories, sang extra songs, and had a silly dress-up contest. (Sidebar: we also opened our class twitter account, so let me know if you would like to follow us!). They went home with stained uniforms, sticky fingers, and smiles on their faces. So did I.

It seems so counter-intuitive that, when I am tired or bored or overwhelmed by my job, withdrawing and taking it easy often do not help. Slowing down, moving more deeply into the moment with the kiddos, re-connecting with them and their world, THOSE are what helps. When tired of teaching, I need to teach MORE, teach HARDER, teach slower and more deliberately. I don't know if this is true in other fields. Do tired accountants need to ACCOUNT more? Regardless, while I have never doubted that summer camp made me a better teacher, it is always nice to have that link illustrated so very clearly. Because of camp, I am actually looking forward to Monday.

step one, we can have lots of fun

First day of school today. What a day. Info about staggered entry went out to some parents, not others. Some thought they could choose whatever timeslot worked for them. Some arrived an hour early. Some arrived 40 minutes late. Our classroom aides have completely new schedules and responsibilities, so were occasionally utterly confused.... What a day.

That said, here are some things I am grateful for as I approach the end of this marathon sprint:

• That most parents at my school have a sense of humour.
• That most of my colleagues have a sense of humour.
• That I have a good relationship with the director of our childcare centre (and that she has a sense of humour), which helped ensure that all the children were supervised by caring adults at all times.
• That my boss (who has the best sense of humour of all) is the embodiment of grace under pressure, keeping a smile on her face all day, through parent complaints and teacher whining and children's outbursts. For a while this morning, in the midst of all the chaos, she was making her rounds while cuddling a sobbing 3-year old who had melted down during preschool dropoff. If all teachers of young children had a role model and mentor so completely committed to putting the children first, the school system would be a very different place. Everyone should, at some point in their career, have a leader, a mentor, a friend (because I do consider her a friend) like Camryn.
  

Don't get me wrong: it was a magical day, a memorable day, a magnificent day -- how can the first day of kindergarten be anything BUT magnificent?!. And the children.... oh, the children, who I already love so much my heart could burst with it. You will all learn more about them very very soon. But right now, after running through the same first day routine twice, and making no less than 5 calls to childcare, and putting out 101 fires about our aides' schedules, and repeating my parents' night speech three times to make sure every parent heard it.... I am just glad that this magical, memorable, magnificent day... is over.