Several weeks ago, I attended a professional development opportunity that took place in a beautiful, brand-spankin' new theatre. My excitement for the day ahead came to a screeching halt when I was stopped at the door and told that I would not be able to bring in my bottle of water. "Seriously?" I muttered to myself, before grumpily pouring out its contents. I'm sure that this no water rule came from an intense pride in the gorgeous theatre and a fear that something might happen to mar any part of it. But, in that moment, resentment bubbled up within me that I often felt when I was a child at school: I wasn't trusted. At thirty-four years old, I wasn't trusted to keep my water from making a mess and ruining things. I can think of so many similar instances from when I was a student; I wasn't trusted to talk with my family about a test, so it had to be signed as evidence that I had. I wasn't trusted to stay on task when using the bathroom, so I needed to take a hall pass. I wasn't trusted to play well on the softball team, so I was kept on the bench for most of the season. These were daily experiences, a way of life that became so ingrained in my education that I came to expect them. But I never stopped resenting them.
As a Reggio-inspired teacher, I'm continually working towards interactions with students that convey a belief in their competency. I observe them carefully, strive to know them deeply, and offer intentional opportunities to take risks and grow. There is no perfect way to teach, but I hope my students know how highly I regard them and their abilities.
I hope the same thing for my daughters, of course. And now that I have the luxury of time to spend with them this summer, I am increasingly aware of how just how intensely they crave my trust. E, my older daughter who will turn four in August, especially seems eager to demonstrate her growing skill set. During a quiet moment while her sister napped last week, she wordlessly joined me in emptying the dishwasher. I felt a surge of adrenaline as she reached for a knife, ready to instruct her to leave it for me. Instead, I stopped, took a breath, and offered, "Would you like to help me put that away? I'll show you a safe way to hold it." The care with which E then handled the knife was reverent, almost ceremonial. I felt a new closeness to her as we worked together as equals, finding a hushed intimacy in the simple task at hand.
Trusting children can be deceptively simple or it can shake your very core. How am I learning to trust E?
"You are trusted to learn how to safely handle tools."
As a Reggio-inspired teacher, I'm continually working towards interactions with students that convey a belief in their competency. I observe them carefully, strive to know them deeply, and offer intentional opportunities to take risks and grow. There is no perfect way to teach, but I hope my students know how highly I regard them and their abilities.
I hope the same thing for my daughters, of course. And now that I have the luxury of time to spend with them this summer, I am increasingly aware of how just how intensely they crave my trust. E, my older daughter who will turn four in August, especially seems eager to demonstrate her growing skill set. During a quiet moment while her sister napped last week, she wordlessly joined me in emptying the dishwasher. I felt a surge of adrenaline as she reached for a knife, ready to instruct her to leave it for me. Instead, I stopped, took a breath, and offered, "Would you like to help me put that away? I'll show you a safe way to hold it." The care with which E then handled the knife was reverent, almost ceremonial. I felt a new closeness to her as we worked together as equals, finding a hushed intimacy in the simple task at hand.
Trusting children can be deceptively simple or it can shake your very core. How am I learning to trust E?
"You are trusted to learn how to safely handle tools."
"You are trusted to work neatly."
"You are trusted to be resourceful and solve problems independently."
"You are trusted to care for those who are dependent on you."
"You are trusted to dress yourself in clothing that makes you comfortable and happy."
"You are trusted to test and learn from the limits of your body."
"You are trusted to find the lessons in your mistakes and to try again."
My wish is that both of my children will learn to trust themselves through the experience of being trusted. How do you convey a sense of trust to the children in your life?
