I love a good challenge.
I am also a pretty intense person when it comes to the things that matter to me. So, when faced with a problem to solve or goal to meet, I tend to be all in. It's visible in many areas of my life. Teaching. Writing. Running. The arts.
Groundhogs.
Namely, the groundhogs that have taken up permanent residence in the hill on our playground and prevent my preschool class from growing anything. Ever. I try something new every year. We've tried fences and gates (they chew through them, no matter the material). Humane traps (they just come back after they've been released). Garden beds raised high above the ground (they climb them). Pinwheels and other moving objects (not scary enough, apparently). A separate, accessible, specially-designated groundhog garden (they eat that and our garden). Nothing works.
As a result, I joke that our campus groundhogs have become my white whale. One of my teammates just recently joined the school last year. She recalls sitting in our opening faculty meetings as we reviewed the list of priorities we'd created the previous school year. Rich, meaningful concerns and questions like "scheduling" and "homework" and "differentiation" comprised our list. And, at the bottom, a final, impassioned plea: "GROUNDHOGS." "What's up with the groundhogs?" she'd whispered to me. (I'm betting she wishes now that she hadn't, because I haven't stopped talking about them since.)
So what does any reasonable human do after so many failed attempts? I've stopped trying. Even worse, I've become the grumpy voice of doom whenever I foresee a potential challenge. Coworker wants to brighten up her step with potted flowers? Can't. The groundhog will get them. Oh, you're thinking of planting in a different yard? They can burrow hundreds of feet, you know. I'm the Debbie Downer of preschool planting, and I place all of the blame on groundhogs.
Our most recent classroom study was on bees. They were also frequent - and somewhat frightening - playground visitors. I had hoped that demystifying bees might make them a little less scary. After learning a bit about how important bees are in the pollination of plants, a revelation arose from the children:
How can we make a garden that lets the bees in but keeps the groundhogs out?
It was such an awesome question that I didn't even know what to do with it. So I just gave the children Sharpies and big pieces of paper and asked them to draw their ideas. Their responses are practical and fantastical, earnest and charming, simple and outlandish. But, above all, they are really smart.
I am also a pretty intense person when it comes to the things that matter to me. So, when faced with a problem to solve or goal to meet, I tend to be all in. It's visible in many areas of my life. Teaching. Writing. Running. The arts.
Groundhogs.
Namely, the groundhogs that have taken up permanent residence in the hill on our playground and prevent my preschool class from growing anything. Ever. I try something new every year. We've tried fences and gates (they chew through them, no matter the material). Humane traps (they just come back after they've been released). Garden beds raised high above the ground (they climb them). Pinwheels and other moving objects (not scary enough, apparently). A separate, accessible, specially-designated groundhog garden (they eat that and our garden). Nothing works.
As a result, I joke that our campus groundhogs have become my white whale. One of my teammates just recently joined the school last year. She recalls sitting in our opening faculty meetings as we reviewed the list of priorities we'd created the previous school year. Rich, meaningful concerns and questions like "scheduling" and "homework" and "differentiation" comprised our list. And, at the bottom, a final, impassioned plea: "GROUNDHOGS." "What's up with the groundhogs?" she'd whispered to me. (I'm betting she wishes now that she hadn't, because I haven't stopped talking about them since.)
So what does any reasonable human do after so many failed attempts? I've stopped trying. Even worse, I've become the grumpy voice of doom whenever I foresee a potential challenge. Coworker wants to brighten up her step with potted flowers? Can't. The groundhog will get them. Oh, you're thinking of planting in a different yard? They can burrow hundreds of feet, you know. I'm the Debbie Downer of preschool planting, and I place all of the blame on groundhogs.
Our most recent classroom study was on bees. They were also frequent - and somewhat frightening - playground visitors. I had hoped that demystifying bees might make them a little less scary. After learning a bit about how important bees are in the pollination of plants, a revelation arose from the children:
How can we make a garden that lets the bees in but keeps the groundhogs out?
It was such an awesome question that I didn't even know what to do with it. So I just gave the children Sharpies and big pieces of paper and asked them to draw their ideas. Their responses are practical and fantastical, earnest and charming, simple and outlandish. But, above all, they are really smart.
"Make a maze outside of the groundhog hole so it gets confused."
"Stuff carrots and leaves into the groundhog hole."
"Put two fences around the garden, and make one of them pokey"
When I attended a Design Thinking training last summer, I could only ever picture building its foundations in my classroom. It just seemed unrealistic, and certainly not developmentally appropriate, to expect very young children to complete the entire design thinking process. And yet, here they are. Doing it. With virtually no help from me. As usual, they are able to do amazingly complex and sophisticated thinking and creating. I just need to provide the environment, the materials, and the queries.
So often, I find myself rushing to get to the "good part." Let's get through putting on coats so we can go outside. Let's get from point A to point B so we can get to the specials class. Let's finish washing hands so we can eat. Let's fix this groundhog problem so we can get to the part where the garden is growing.
But what happens if I see it all as the "good part?" What happens if I let the groundhogs - and all the other pesky inconveniences of daily life - be the teachers?
So often, I find myself rushing to get to the "good part." Let's get through putting on coats so we can go outside. Let's get from point A to point B so we can get to the specials class. Let's finish washing hands so we can eat. Let's fix this groundhog problem so we can get to the part where the garden is growing.
But what happens if I see it all as the "good part?" What happens if I let the groundhogs - and all the other pesky inconveniences of daily life - be the teachers?
