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.
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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

"Reggio-inspired teaching."  See it, just over there to your right?  Those are words I chose when I created this blog.  It's not just a description but also a purpose.  I wanted to use this platform to reflect on and share my teaching practices specifically in the context of Reggio-inspired philosophy.  What comes to mind for you when you think of a Reggio-inspired teacher?  Is it a constructivist who uses emergent curriculum?  Someone who thoughtfully prepares the environment to be a rich and beautiful third teacher?  Who views all children as inherently competent learners who are able to do sophisticated thinking with the right materials and guidance?

What about someone searching the rainbow-hued freebies on Teachers Pay Teachers?  Or perhaps who endlessly scrolls Pinterest for suggestions like "How To Set Up the Blocks Area" and "Managing Preschool Centers?"

Because let me tell you something, friends.  That is exactly where I am right now.  

One of the things that I initially found so appealing about the Reggio approach was how unscripted and unpredictable it was.  It meant putting aside all of the things I thought I knew and running headfirst into uncertainty, discomfort, and risk.  And I LOVED that.  It felt revolutionary, like my teaching had new blood and a fresh breath.  Even if I wasn't totally sure of what I was doing, I was committed.  I tried lots of things that failed, and I made lots of mistakes.  There were plenty of answers I didn't know, plenty of times I got it wrong.  But I was learning all the time.  Each day was a big, bold, beautiful, messy experiment in our classroom laboratory.  

Here's the thing no one will tell you, and it's not something I've really talked about here before: This way of teaching is HARD.  It takes incredible amounts of energy, so much time, and so many resources.  You are observing, reflecting, interpreting, responding, testing, adjusting all the time.  You are constantly designing curriculum from scratch, connecting it to outcomes, assessing progress through anecdotal records, documenting the learning, and then doing it all over again.  With no sense of what might be coming next.  And that's just the part of the day that's planned.  Working with young children means most of your day is unplanned - providing care in the moment, often attending to the urgent physical needs of your students.  Managing the million conflicts between children and embracing them as teachable moments.  Bearing loving witness to overwhelming feelings while holding firm in the boundaries.  Cleaning up the spills, answering the phone, getting the dishes washed.  It's a lot.  I love it so much.  But it's a lot.  

The world - my world - was so different seven years ago.  The unknowns in my teaching felt exciting and full of promise, probably because my personal life felt so secure and predictable.  But now?  Now I just can't bear more uncertainty, which is why I think I find myself wanting to scrap the Reggio life at the moment.  

I want tidy, fully-planned units with books, center activities, and crafts.
I want to know what we will be learning every week for the rest of the year.
I want rows of plastic bins with labels and everything I need inside.
I want cute binders holding color-coded note-taking systems.

I want to know for sure what comes next in one area of my life.  To not worry about it, consider it from twenty angles, or expend mental and emotional energy on it.  And I want to feel completely prepared for it.  

Reggio?  Maybe not.  But what I need right now?  Absolutely.  

At the beginning of year meetings, our team considered how we might build community with the families in our program given the ongoing limitations presented by Covid.  One idea we batted around was outdoor gatherings.  Could we host an evening event in the fall, before it got too cold?  When the last day before winter break, just a few sleeps away from the solstice, promised an almost-full moon, my teaching partner and I couldn't resist the allure of using such a gathering to celebrate the conclusion of our "Earth and Sky" study.  Children and their families would meet in our natural classroom just after dusk.  Everyone would bring their flashlights.  We'd illuminate the lanterns we'd made together, read stories, sing songs, and maybe even share some hot chocolate.  It turned out to be a beautifully simple and festive party, even though I'd significantly underestimated how badly I would be ready to get home and start break (let's just file that under "Live, Learn, and Remember For Next Time.")

As we were preparing for the guests to join us, I chatted for a moment with my teaching partner's eldest daughter, who is in kindergarten.  "How was your day?" I asked by way of greeting.

"Great!" she chirped cheerfully, her big brown eyes taking in the view of the sunset through the bare branches.  "And also pretty hard."  

She scampered away to scale a nearby log, and I was left behind with the reminder that, as usual, children's wisdom far surpasses my own   

In this incredibly challenging year, I find myself thinking a lot about that word: And.  It's so simple, yet mindfully incorporating it into my teaching practice (and life!) is surprisingly profound.  I find it so tempting to fall into patterns of either/or thinking, especially when I'm tired or stressed - which, let's face it, is a lot of the time.  

Either I'm a perpetually cheerful teacher OR I'm a total grouch who is no fun to be around.
Either I always utilize healthy discipline strategies OR I'm a completely heartless villain. 
Either I design child-centered emergent curriculum OR I do "craptivities" all day long.

I'm trying to be more aware of these thought patterns; to catch them, name them, and transform them into statements of truth that that hinge on the word "and."

I am a characteristically cheerful person, AND there are days I don't feel my best.
I use healthy discipline strategies, AND I sometimes lose my patience.
I design emergent curriculum, AND I find productive ways to implement others' ideas.  

In a bigger sense, how might I both acknowledge the collective trauma of the pandemic while also honoring the many beautiful qualities that my students bring to school every day?  I think a child articulated it best for me.

This year is great.  And also pretty hard.

Full transparency, I was on a bit of a rant.  

In my defense, I process best with words.  And I find that the largest portion of my teacher frustrations comes from wanting to best serve a student and not being able to crack the code of interpreting what they need.  That was the case on this particular day, and I was thinking out loud about some challenges I was observing in the hopes that it would help me unlock some new insight.  Well, it did.  Just not the one I was expecting.  

"Oh my God," I said suddenly, the realization crashing on me all at once.  "Listen to me.  I'm the one with the low frustration threshold."

For the past year and a half, I've heard the word "normal" at least a million times.  The loss of normal.  The new normal.  Returning to normal.  I don't even know what normal is.  And if you'd asked me what I thought it was in 2019, I'm not sure what I would have said.  I don't really care about normal anymore.  I'm not sure how it serves me.  How it serves us.  

What I do care about is meeting this moment exactly as it is.  I care about meeting my students exactly where they are.  I am realizing that their needs at this moment are the not the needs of children their age just eighteen months ago.  I am realizing that I need not only to reexamine curriculum, as I do every year.  I need to reexamine what it means to be a two, three, four year old in the context of our current shared reality.

It's a whole new world.

And not just for them, the children.  For us. For the teachers, parents, caregivers who share our lives with them.  We're not who we were, who we would have been if our lives had remained "normal."   Chugging my coffee, venting with my co-worker, I saw the truth.  For every challenge my students are facing, I am, too.  

I, too, am having trouble focusing.
I, too, am having a hard time regulating and being patient.
I, too, am having emotional outbursts, an increased need for comfort, an overall sense of stress and overwhelm.   

Me, too. 

So how do we navigate this?  Children, adults, communities still reeling, still having so many unmet needs of our own while trying to meet the needs of others.  I don't know.  

But as I wore my Mr. Rogers necklace earlier this week, I just kept thinking: Could it be love?  Could it be that simple and that revolutionary?  Could I dare to release every preconceived notion I've had about what a child should be - what I should be - and love the person in front of me the very best I can? 

Maybe if I can do that for others, I can do it for myself.  And maybe we can all start healing.      

After a summer of really uncomfortable and worrisome symptoms, I recently got clarity around what was causing the problems: The diagnosis of a chronic inflammatory disease.  I felt equal parts relieved (to finally have some answers) and anxious (there was so much to learn about and understand).  Diet and nutrition would go a long way in helping me feel better, but I was already overwhelmed by the reality of what this new habit would look like.  Elaborate experiments to discover my triggers.  All of my free time spent grocery shopping, scanning aisle after aisle of labels.  Weekends dedicated to food preparation, having to plan everything, no spontaneity or fun at restaurants.  How was I ever going to manage this?

I know, deep down, that I deserve the effort it would take to be healthy and feel good.  It would just mean making some decisions. And it would mean adjusting my perspective a bit.  

Maybe I could choose to see my diagnosis as an invitation.

"Invitation" is a common part of my vocabulary. Every day, we offer what we call invitations in our classroom.  The children always have access to free play, but we teachers also prepare specific arrangements of materials to explore.  We usually have an idea in mind of what we hope the children will get out of their experience, some new understanding or cognitive connection that gets made.  But sometimes, the children surprise us with the ways they engage with the invitations.  Surprise is always a possibility because an invitation is, by nature, the presentation of a choice.  We supply the time, space, and materials.  The children choose what to do with them - if anything at all.  
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These days, I'm finding it strangely refreshing to look my life the same way and ask myself what invitations it could be presenting to me, what it might be calling me to consider that I hadn't before.

New medical diagnosis?
     An invitation to more closely attend to my body's messages and dedicate care to myself

Students having a particularly difficult day?
     An invitation to let go of my own agenda and be fully present for the children

Feeling stressed by household responsibilities?
     An invitation to ask for help and relax my expectations 

I'm reminded, too, of those children who choose not to participate in a classroom invitation.  It is, after all, an invitation and not a demand.  A child is always welcome to decline the invitation and continue their own self-selected play.  They're simply checking the "will not attend" box on the R.S.V.P.  And I can do that, too.

Obligations that are no longer fulfilling?
     Will not attend

Exercise I don't enjoy?
     Will not attend

Toxic relationships?
     Will not attend

What invitations are presenting themselves to you in your work?  In your life?  And what will you choose?

I was recently doing an unrelated search through old work emails when I came across one I'd written about ten years ago. There was nothing unusual about the email, really.  It was a quick update letting a parent know that their child was having a challenge attending to circle time.  Polite, professional, proactive.  So what was it that made me stop in my tracks?

Reading that email was like stepping into a pedagogical time machine.  I saw my classroom, clear as could be, the bulletin boards covered with bright red paper and glitter border.  I saw the detailed expectations for circle time behavior posted at the front of the room: Eyes on the speaker, legs "criss cross applesauce," lips still, hands in laps.  I saw the repetitive vocabulary drills I'd excitedly purchased from a big box curriculum, certain that a brightly-colored parrot puppet would be the key to unlocking the joy of learning.  And, most of all, I saw myself.  I saw an eager young teacher trying really hard, so badly wanting to get everything "right," and yet never - not once - asking herself what she might be doing to contribute to a student's difficulties.

Ouch.

A decade later, things are different.  I work hard to keep the classroom environment cozy, neutral,  and home-like.  Children can be seen sitting in lots of ways, legs sprawled in all directions, only sometimes raising their hands before sharing their thoughts and ideas with the group.  I'm not sure where that expensive parrot puppet is, but the scripted lessons have been replaced by conversation, debate, and delightfully random non-sequiturs.  And I've come to get really comfortable with not knowing, to be constantly reflecting, and to redefine what I think learning really looks like.  

Tr. Adrienne from ten years ago didn't necessarily have the wrong approach, just like Tr. Adrienne today doesn't necessarily have the right one.  But that email was an important reminder to me that teachers are always learning, growing, and evolving right along with their students.  And that we need to extend the same grace to one another in our own learning as we do to our students.  Students AND teachers do as well as they can.​

I don't engage much in Reggio-inspired teacher groups on Facebook anymore, though I used to quite a bit.  At first, I was so excited to connect with other teachers who had similar philosophies, to see their beautiful classroom set-ups, and to have meaty conversations with them.  What I found over time, though, was that my participation in those groups always left me feeling worse.  Responses were often condescending, didactic, and critical.  In those spaces, the Reggio Emilia approach seemed to only exist in some mysteriously pre-ordained binary: Either you "were Reggio" or you weren't.  And if you weren't, it was probably because you weren't very smart and couldn't grasp its complexities and nuances.  Not really the positive and open-minded professional community I want to be a part of.

How did we get here?

Recently, though, I felt compelled to join in a conversation about infant room decor from a teacher who had only just been told that her center was making the switch to being Reggio-inspired.  I could all but feel her tears and overwhelm.  What if, instead of making teachers new to the approach feel inadequate or ignorant, we welcomed them with kindness and warmth?  What if we reassured them that they have everything they need within them to be successful?  What if - and bear with me, here - we treat them with the same love and support that we extend to our students as they fumble their way through learning? 

I will never forget visiting a shall-not-be-named center known for its Reggio-inspired practices.  This school hosts yearly professional development opportunities, complete with tours of their (admittedly stunning) spaces.  One of the teachers must have noticed me gaping at the pristine classroom and sidled up next to me.  "Want to see what's behind the curtain?" she whispered with a gleam in her eye.  It was an invitation I couldn't refuse.  She quietly but triumphantly opened the storage cabinets running the length of the room, displaying a completely haphazard mess of a million different supplies.  "Don't let all this intimidate you," she said.  "We shoved everything in these cabinets before you all came here.  Just like everybody else."

That was brave.  That was vulnerable.  That was a teacher who wasn't too proud to share her truth for the sake of another's learning.

Let's not be afraid to keep growing.  And let's help one another find that courage, too.