I can't say for certain, but I think it was the ear-splitting screams that brought an administrator into my classroom recently. She found me sitting calmly next to a child who was, to put it simply, totally freaking out. I could see the concern on our visitor's face and, without really thinking about it, told her, "Sorry about the volume. I'm allowing the struggle." She gave me a nod, replied, "I love it," and walked back out.
It's the end of another school year together, a time filled with big feelings for teachers and students alike. This spring marks the end of my second year working towards a Reggio-inspired experience for my students and, as richly rewarding and successful as I think it has been, I'm also feeling tired. The children, likewise, are simultaneously filled with exuberance and exhaustion. Conflicts are bubbling up with increased frequency, and emotional outbursts seem more intense than ever. I often reassure my students that problems are just a part of life and that we all face them. Usually, I do my best to help clarify the conflict (so often, the heart of the problem gets lost in the passion of the feeling) and ask them how they'd like to move forward. With just this bit of guidance, I find that conflicts tend to resolve rather quickly, with terms that are agreeable to all involved.
But then there are times when they don't. Times when, for any number of reasons, a child has limited reserves for doing this hard work. They're tired or hungry. A parent is out of town. Perhaps they're even sensing a goodbye on the horizon. During these times, I find that very little will provide comfort or move us towards a resolution. And, in those moments, it seems that the most respectful thing to do is, as I spontaneously coined it, "allow the struggle."
There were several moments like this in the past few weeks. In one instance, two children arrived at a riding toy at the same time, both wanting to use it, but finding that it only held one rider. Despite my best efforts to mediate, neither child was willing to budge (literally or figuratively). And so I simply got comfortable, provided calm and supportive feedback, and waited. I interrupted a few pushes and occasionally said things like, "You both seem so upset" and "I know you can figure this out." Other children passed through the scene with curiosity, some simply observing, while others made suggestions for what they might try to do next. It felt like an eternity of screaming passed. To be honest, I wasn't sure we were going to resolve anything before we needed to go back inside. I truly had no idea what was going to happen next. But finally - finally - one child abruptly stood, stepped away, and said, "Ok, you can go first."
It was a huge breakthrough for this child. I don't think that, in the whole year we've worked together, I'd ever seen him be the first to compromise. I could barely contain my excitement and pride. "That was really hard, but you did it!" I exclaimed. "Can I hug you?" He flew into my arms and allowed me to scoop him up, a smile simply bursting through his body as we celebrated.
It's almost June. We're all tired. But what if, instead of avoiding the struggle, we allow it? What might we - teachers and students - find that we are capable of doing? What might we learn about ourselves and each other if we just sit down and get comfortable with the hard parts?
It's the end of another school year together, a time filled with big feelings for teachers and students alike. This spring marks the end of my second year working towards a Reggio-inspired experience for my students and, as richly rewarding and successful as I think it has been, I'm also feeling tired. The children, likewise, are simultaneously filled with exuberance and exhaustion. Conflicts are bubbling up with increased frequency, and emotional outbursts seem more intense than ever. I often reassure my students that problems are just a part of life and that we all face them. Usually, I do my best to help clarify the conflict (so often, the heart of the problem gets lost in the passion of the feeling) and ask them how they'd like to move forward. With just this bit of guidance, I find that conflicts tend to resolve rather quickly, with terms that are agreeable to all involved.
But then there are times when they don't. Times when, for any number of reasons, a child has limited reserves for doing this hard work. They're tired or hungry. A parent is out of town. Perhaps they're even sensing a goodbye on the horizon. During these times, I find that very little will provide comfort or move us towards a resolution. And, in those moments, it seems that the most respectful thing to do is, as I spontaneously coined it, "allow the struggle."
There were several moments like this in the past few weeks. In one instance, two children arrived at a riding toy at the same time, both wanting to use it, but finding that it only held one rider. Despite my best efforts to mediate, neither child was willing to budge (literally or figuratively). And so I simply got comfortable, provided calm and supportive feedback, and waited. I interrupted a few pushes and occasionally said things like, "You both seem so upset" and "I know you can figure this out." Other children passed through the scene with curiosity, some simply observing, while others made suggestions for what they might try to do next. It felt like an eternity of screaming passed. To be honest, I wasn't sure we were going to resolve anything before we needed to go back inside. I truly had no idea what was going to happen next. But finally - finally - one child abruptly stood, stepped away, and said, "Ok, you can go first."
It was a huge breakthrough for this child. I don't think that, in the whole year we've worked together, I'd ever seen him be the first to compromise. I could barely contain my excitement and pride. "That was really hard, but you did it!" I exclaimed. "Can I hug you?" He flew into my arms and allowed me to scoop him up, a smile simply bursting through his body as we celebrated.
It's almost June. We're all tired. But what if, instead of avoiding the struggle, we allow it? What might we - teachers and students - find that we are capable of doing? What might we learn about ourselves and each other if we just sit down and get comfortable with the hard parts?
