I was recently preparing the classroom for the new school year when I turned my attention to the blocks.  It had been some time since I'd really gone through them and checked for rough sides or splintered corners.  As my fingers traced the surfaces of the wood, I noticed how dry and dull they looked, and I wondered, Have these blocks ever been oiled? Polished? Cleaned?  In what only makes sense to a teacher in the feverish stage of nesting that comes at the end of each summer, I got a cloth and what a sniff-test determined to be some Pledge, and got comfortable on the floor in the construction center.

I watched the blocks transform before my eyes, turning warm and golden as I tended to them.  The work was somewhat tedious, but satisfying, and as I polished, I realized: In all the 15 years of teaching at my school, all through the multiple grade changes and classroom transfers, I have never purchased blocks.  They were always just there, a given, like tables or chairs or sinks or bathrooms.  They were such an expected part of our early childhood classrooms, it never occurred to me that someone, at some point, must have bought them.

Who bought this block?  Who saw the need, found the funding, placed the order? Who unpacked them and placed them on shelves for the first time?  Did they pass through the hands of co-workers I know?  Those who came before me?  Was this block ever held by Jane, one of my early childhood mentors who has since passed on?

How old are these blocks?  Were they shipped to a house?  To the school?  Or did someone drive to pick them up?  Where?

And who, in all those many years, has used these blocks?  How many small children have built with them, knocked them over, argued about them, cried when fell?  Have they graduated?  What do their lives look like now?  

If this block could talk, what would it say?  What stories would it tell?

So many things come and go.  So many changes. New curriculum, new policies, new people.  But the blocks don't change.  These blocks are the bones of the classroom.

Do you have memories of classroom jobs from your childhood?  Every single person I've asked in my informal poll has told me that their favorite job was clapping the erasers, which I found fascinating.  (That was my favorite, too!)  What was it about that job that we all found so rewarding?  Maybe it was the strong sensory feedback or the thrill of having just a tiny moment without teacher supervision.  In any case, eraser clapping is the only classroom job that seems to have made an impression on the folks in my life.  You know what I haven't heard about, not even once?

Line leader.  (cue thunderclap sound effect)

Line leader is the bane of my existence, and let me tell you why.  I've had some years when I have jobs in my classroom and some when I don't.  In the years when I've had them, nothing causes more distress than the line leader job.  It doesn't make sense, does it?  You'd think that having that set aside as a job, a predetermined given every single day, would eliminate conflict.  In my experience, it does not.  Because inevitably, someone gets in front of the line leader, perhaps accidentally or because that's where they want to be or maybe they just want to push some buttons, and all hell breaks loose.  There is shouting, there is crying, there is a delay getting where we need to go.  I had a huge aha moment a few years ago, one of the times I didn't have the line leader job in my classroom.  Another adult was helping my class get ready to transition and announced that they needed to see the line leader.  One four year old blinked her big eyes, all innocence, and asked,

"What's a line leader?"

That job had no meaning whatsoever to her.  I hadn't made it a privilege, I hadn't set it apart, so it wasn't something precious.  And it wasn't an issue that arose organically from the children.  We just kind of moved peacefully from place to place in an amorphous blob.  It made me wonder what I had been communicating to the children, intentionally or not, in the years when we'd had a line leader job. 

I know that many early childhood curriculums include classroom jobs with the goals of teaching children to take on responsibility and care for the community.  I love those goals!  But to be honest, I'm not sure I've ever seen those results when I assign classroom jobs.  It tends to go a little something like this: I create enough jobs so that every child has one every day, which means I am definitely stretching.  ("Paper towel helper?"  "Tissue monitor?" Fine, ok, sure.)  I teach what each one of those jobs entails.  I make sure the job rotation is updated daily.  And I spend a large portion of my time chasing down children to do their "jobs" who don't want to do them and don't care about them.  I'm not sure what anyone is taking away from that.

You know when I do see those goals being met?  When the adults actively model care for the community themselves.  I notice that when the children see me washing the tables, they get a wipe so they can do it, too.  When I sweep the floors, they ask for a broom so they can join me.  After they've seen me water the plants or prepare snack or fetch a bandage for someone bleeding, they will almost certainly want to start doing it themselves. 

And isn't that what we want for our children?  To be the kinds of world citizens who see a need a fill it.  Who don't wait for someone else to tell them what jobs need to be done and whether it's their turn to do them.  Who don't need permission to get to work caring for the greater good.

A fro-worker (that's a friend who is also a co-worker in my own personal lexicon) recently shared a YouTube clip with me that she thought I would appreciate.  It shows a pair of preschoolers, maybe around three years old, debating if the weather is "raining" or "sprinkling."  I give so much credit to the incredibly patient teacher who allows this to unfold without interruption.  

If this discussion were to happen in my classroom, I would probably interject with something along the lines of:
" _______, you think it's raining outside today.  And ______, you think it's sprinkling.  You have different ideas about the weather.  You disagree.  It's ok to disagree."

I would offer this not only to validate each child's experience but moreover, if I'm being really honest, to try to get them to stop arguing.  Because as much as these kinds of disagreements are a part of my daily life as an early childhood educator, I find them incredibly stressful. Bearing witness to conflict, especially conflict that seems to have no end, is hard!  There must be some evolutionary reason we find them so unnerving. I have found, however, that my interjections are only sometimes helpful.  And I think it's because children only sometimes want a resolution.  Many times, they want to argue.  In fact, I've come to realize that they need to argue.  They are practicing conflict.  We often place so much emphasis on supporting the children as they resolve the conflict, and I do think that's important.  What about the times, though, when there is truly nothing to resolve?  Over the years, I have observed so many children simply engage in a shouting match of "No!" "Yes!" "No!" "Yes!"  If I ask what the conflict is about, they don't have a particular answer.  The conflict itself is the experience.  It's the engagement.  It's the play.  

Somewhere in the years that follow, for many of us, conflict becomes something to be avoided.  We absorb the message that nice girls aren't difficult, aren't complicated, aren't too much.  We learn that good boys don't get sad, don't take it personally, don't sweat the small stuff.  And so we move through the world bitter and seething, denying ourselves of our innate desire to engage in healthy conflict.  I am embarrassed to admit the lengths to which I have sometimes gone to avoid conflict, mostly because I've talked myself out of believing that my hurt feelings were important enough to make someone else feel uncomfortable. 

As I get older, though, I am becoming less willing to second-guess my experiences.  If I feel hurt, that's my experience.  If I feel frustrated or overlooked or disappointed by another's actions, those are my experiences, too.  It's ok to respectfully give voice to those experiences, even if there is no resolution.  

In fact, I believe we have a professional responsibility to engage in conflict with our colleagues when there is an issue in the working relationship.  Unvoiced grievances gradually become resentment and can create a toxic work environment that inevitably affects the children.  I am working on identifying which issues are worth raising (Am I truly concerned for the children in this co-worker's care or do we just have different teaching styles?  Is there a pattern of unkindness in our interactions or are they having a hard day?) and then communicating those issues in a clear and assertive way (i.e. "The tone of our conversations has been feeling confrontational to me.  Is there something more we need to talk about?").  It's not realistic for any of us to expect that our co-workers will all become fro-workers; but it is ok to expect that our working relationships will be respectful.  We all have a role in maintaining that environment of respect, even when it means facing conflict.

After all, it's what we ask the children to do.  

This week, I realized that I refer to myself as a nerd pretty frequently.  

I hadn't really noticed it until I was making conversation with a familiar acquaintance. "My undergrad degree was in acting," I told her.  "I'm such a theatre nerd!"

"Oh," she replied.  "Well, I run a theatre company."

I immediately felt really awkward, hoping that she would see my use of the word "nerd" as the self-deprecating term of endearment I intended, not as the insult it would have been in middle school.

In any case, I'm fairly certain I didn't accidentally insult my new friend.  But it did give me pause enough to ask myself when and why I keep referring to myself this way.  I use it a lot as a kind of preemptive apology when I'm sharing something about myself that I think others will find either strange or unnecessarily intense; such as, "I know it's weird, but I'm a total nerd for Cirque du Soleil" (which is the absolute truth, by the way).  I think it's rooted in a defense mechanism that lots of us develop when we're young and navigating the increasingly complex waters of social interaction.  At some point, we become aware of our perceived weaknesses and, to protect ourselves, we try to reclaim all the things that might make us be seen as weird or uncool.  In other words, if I call myself a nerd before you do, you can't hurt me with it.  And I get to keep some control - and dignity.  

To this day, I am a self-proclaimed nerd in lots of ways.  I am, by nature, drawn the the unusual, the overlooked, and the underdog.  And I love fiercely.  Nothing in my heart lives there half way.  So it really shouldn't be surprising that I am the biggest nerd of all when it comes to my job.  

I know lots of folks who enjoy their jobs, but who view them as a means to an end.  They go to work, they fulfill their responsibilities, and they (hopefully) earn money that allows them to live the way they want to live.  I totally respect that.  But it's not how I am.  If I have to trade a significant part of the "one wild and precious life" I am given to be able to do things like buy toothpaste and pay for car insurance, I want it to be spent doing something that brings me joy and purpose.  My job is not my life, but it's not separate from my life, either.  

So I am all in, all the time.  I get excited about planning, organizing, and arranging the room, carefully considering all the possibilities.  I'm inspired by learning new things, looking at data and research, reflecting on my work, and meeting fellow educators who are on their own unique journeys.  A teacher doesn't need to do all those things to be good at what they do, but it's what I need to feed my soul. One of my favorite quotes from a book about early pedagogy says, "If I have chosen not to make this meaningful, that is on me."  I want to live a life that finds meaning everywhere, all the time.

I know my enthusiasm can come across as cheesy, confusing, and even annoying.  There's still the sixth grader somewhere inside of me who wants to apologize for it, to offer a wry smile and reassure you that I already know the truth.  "I'm such a nerd!"

But here's the thing: I'm 41 years old.  I've been teaching for well over a third of my life, and it's a part of who I am.  I don't want to apologize any more, even as a joke.  I'm challenging myself to pause when I feel the urge to do so.  Recognize it.  Consider why I might have that impulse.  And instead, to simply say, with all sincerity, honesty, and pride,

"I love my job."

6.14.22
Hello, dear heart!

What a year, right?  It was tough.  It was super tough.  You said on more than one occasion that it was the hardest school year of your 17-year career.  And yet, here you are.  You made it.  In fact, you didn't just "make it" - you thrived.  You surrounded yourself with an incredible support system, really paid attention to your needs, and prioritized taking care of yourself.  You deserve to celebrate yourself.  And you deserve to thank yourself.  You gave 100% every day.  100% of your heart, your brain, your patience, your empathy, your creativity.  Thank you for sharing your Light.  It is so bright, and it does make a difference.

In September, you had no idea what was coming your way - students literally climbing the furniture, throwing chairs, scratching, kicking, and hitting you.  The epic, explosive crying.  The total chaos, the lack of any logic, needing to be in ten different places at once, putting out one fire after another, sore muscles and breaking a sweat just trying to safely return these babies to their homes.  Holding boundaries even when you're exhausted.  Digging as deep as you can to honor feelings when you really just want their expression to stop. 

And yet, look at how far these students came with your love and guidance.  They grew to understand that they could trust you - that you would be a safe place in the storm of being new to the world.  That they are valuable, worthy of being truly seen and heard.  They learned of their power - you allowed them to try, to struggle, and to persevere.  You gave them tools to both give and receive love from others, to experience one of the great joys in life by forming friendships.  You modeled taking good care of yourself so that they know it's ok for them to do the same.  You welcomed the wildness, the wackiness, the play and imagination, all without ever losing your place as the calm center in the eye of the storm.  You are the tether between home and the world - what a powerful, sacred role that is.  Thank you for honoring and delighting in it.

Who knows what next year will bring - or tomorrow, for that matter. But bring along that expansive, adventurous, reverent heart of yours.  And trust that your work is some of the most important work in the world.

With love,
Tr. Adrienne 

I was a huge Ani DiFranco fan in my early twenties.  Her songs spoke so truthfully to my experiences as I navigated my first forays into adulthood: The heartbreak, the questions, the love, the choices.  So many of her lyrics are still stamped on my heart and memory, and one that continues to come to mind so many years later is from Out Of Range:

"If you're not angry, then you're just stupid or you don't care."

With more life and experience under my belt now, I find the sentiment charmingly simplistic.  After all, I'm working hard at this point in my life to challenge either/or thinking.  And yet the truth is, I AM angry.  A lot. 

I'm angry when I clearly can see a student struggling with something that I know could be supported through early intervention, and I cannot secure it for them.  I am told to give it time, that they do not qualify for the services, or a setting that would best serve them simply does not exist.  

I'm angry when teachers of older children tell me how fun it must be to play all day, have a class that sleeps all afternoon, or that they like to visit my room for a "break."

I'm angry any time my work gets called "cute."

I'm angry whenever I hear the implication that there is some kind of hierarchical difference between child care and early childhood education, and I'm angry every single time I hear the word "just" precede "daycare." 

I'm angry when I have to justify having two teachers in my classroom at all times, as though licensing ratios are some kind of arbitrary means of enabling lazy teachers.

I'm angry that countless skilled, knowledgeable, talented early childhood teachers have to go to work every day and deliver curriculum that they know is not best practice because someone who has more power and is making more money doesn't know what learning for young children actually looks like. 

I'm angry that so many early childhood educators are leaving the field every single day.  Because they can't live on the pay.  Because their employers are constantly short-staffed.  Because they are on their own with no resources to help manage extremely challenging needs and behaviors.  

Anger isn't inherently bad.  I've learned that anger alerts us to our values - we feel it because something has happened that challenges what we feel is right and just.  My anger flares when I sense that young children (and by extension, all those who work with them) aren't being given the respect they deserve.  I also know that it's not healthy to move through life living only in a state of anger. I want to be in the present moment for the children I am working with, open to receiving and expressing love, joy, and wonder.  And so I try to let my anger motivate me to action, use it to fuel my advocacy.  Then I can release it, just for a bit, so that I focus on the children in front of me.
​
One of the best compliments I've ever received is from one of my colleagues, who wrote, "I love that you are Disney princess and fierce warrior all in one."

We can be both.  We must be.  

It is May, teacher friends.  MAY!

I thought the spring of 2020 would be hard, and it was.  We were scared, we were unprepared, we were thrown into an entirely new way of designing and delivering our practice.  

I thought the 2020-2021 school year would be hard, and it was.  Everyone in masks, a gazillion reminders a day, social distancing, fear and anxiety driving so much of our work.  

This year, though?  This year, I thought we would be inching back to the way things used to be.  I thought we would be getting closer to the familiar. Mostly, I thought things would be getting easier.  They. Did. Not.  And I know I'm not alone in feeling this way.

I'm not an anthropologist or a scientist.  I can only speculate why this may be.  My hunch is that it has something to do with long term, collective, pandemic-related trauma.  But I don't know. Don't get me wrong. I'm still madly in love with my job.  And the children are generally happy.  They are just incredibly disregulated.  They seem stressed.  I've been approaching my work all year with the same lens I've always used: Reggio-inspired.  Emergent curriculum.  Project based.  But it's not working the way I'm used to.  Something is off.

When I ask myself what the children's behavior is communicating to me, it's pretty clear.  "Please give me boundaries so I feel safe.  I need to know exactly what to expect.  Reassure me that you are in control and will take care of me.  Be consistent, clear, and strong for me."

Not too long ago, reflecting on the challenges of the year, a thought hit me like a lightening bolt.  What if (and bear with me, this is about to get really meta), but what if?

What if, sometimes, the most Reggio-inspired thing you can do is NOT be Reggio-inspired?

If the heart of the approach is a respectful view of the child; if the goal is for children to realize their full, amazing, powerful potential; if our strategy is to follow the child's lead...maybe we need to keep ourselves open to the possibility that Reggio doesn't always do that for everyone.  Maybe this year, pushing Reggio was for me, and not the kids.

And that's not Reggio-inspired at all.  

We had been working together for about a month when my new teaching partner, during a quiet moment at rest time, leaned across our desk and wondered, "Can I ask you a question that might seem a little weird?"

I had to smile.  "Absolutely!" I replied.  "Things get real pretty fast down here in Early Years."

This school year marks the first time in seven years that I am working with a new partner.  She is an absolute delight, and I adore her.  Which may have been why I was especially aware of - and a little apprehensive for! - all the firsts she would see in me.  The first time I would lose my patience.  The first time I'd have to talk myself through a panic attack.  The first time I'd come to school completely haggard and exhausted; see my plans go off the rails and not know what to do next; or roll my eyes at a petty frustration.  Basically, I wondered when she would first see me when I wasn't at my best.  And where we would go from there.  

I can't speak to what working relationships are like for others, but there is an intimacy among early childhood educators that I would venture to guess is found in few other professions (the medical field and food service industry come to mind). There are decisions to be made at every moment, in an environment that can be loud, fast-paced, and overwhelming.  Priorities change all the time as you triage challenges and needs, and those plans have to be communicated to your co-workers succinctly and effectively amidst the chaos.  There is a great sense of both urgency and humility to your tasks, tending to the basic and unpredictable physical needs of young children depending on you.   And there are no offices to which you can retreat for a second of silence, no door to close while you catch your breath.  All of your own emotional regulation is in the open, on display, even in your least flattering moments, modeling for children how to manage stress and "big feelings." 

And in those moments, your whole, messy self is also fully visible to your teaching partner.  This is vulnerable work because there is no wiggle room to pretend that you're ok when you're not.  No scrap of privacy to pull yourself from the brink of tears.  When it works well, that inherent vulnerability can create trust, connection, and respect.  When it doesn't, it can lead to judgment, defensiveness, and competition.  

As we do this important work together, I hope we can remember how vulnerable it really is to bring your full self to the job.  And yet, how much richer our teaching is when we are brave enough do that.  I hope we can embrace that vulnerability as we create a healthy and loving village for the children.  And ourselves.  

Imagine you're a plumber.

You're a professional.  You have experience, and you're good at what you do.  You receive a call to do a maintenance check, take one look at the piping system, and know right away there's a problem.  If it isn't addressed quickly and thoroughly, it will create serious damage.  You deliver the news to your customer, but things don't go the way you anticipated.

"'Serious damage', really?" your customer challenges.  "How do you know?"

"Well...I'm a plumber.  This is what I do," you reply.   "I've seen this before, and I want to be honest with you about the possible outcomes."

"I actually know a lot about plumbing, too," they snap.  "And I think you're overreacting. How do I know you don't just want more money?  Or maybe you have a friend who wants to sell me parts I don't need."  

"You're welcome to make a different decision than the one I'm suggesting," you finally offer.  "Here's my card to be in touch." 

The agitated client hurries you to the door.  "Oh, wait!" they pipe up just before the door closes behind you. "What kind of mops do you recommend?"

Every single teacher I know right now is a plumber.  We've been pointing out the problems for years, speaking up for kids and families every chance we get.  Looking for someone who will listen, who will take us seriously, who won't dismiss our concerns as greed, ignorance, or hubris.  Advocating at every level - working to change legislation, change social supports, change entire systems.  All in the service of children.

And yet, here we are.  Standing soaked in the flood of the pandemic.  Being asked what kind of mops we should use to clean it up.  

"Look!"
I follow the small finger pointed upward
"Birdie!"

A red-tailed hawk glides silently over us
Perches imperiously for just a moment
Silhouetted against the cold winter blue
A beat
A blink
A breath
Before it alights again
Disappearing into the branches

The child returns to play

My heart is a hawk
Unafraid of the horizon's expanse
A solitary hunter
Searching
Always
Searching
Straining for the prize
For the mouse or the meaning
That can sustain the deep stillness
Until the hunger comes again

My heart is a hawk, but these days
I'm an ant
Carrying the impossibly heavy
Spindly step by spindly step
Seeing no farther than what lies just beyond
One anonymous ant in a row of tiny Atlases 
Forging ahead blindly
Towards an unknowable destination

My heart is a hawk
A hawk heart doesn't die
But for now, I shoulder the load of the humble ant
And wait to fly again