Aunt Annie's Childcare

Preparing your preschooler for the teenage years

2012-06-02T15:31:00.001+10:00

I suppose you're going to tell me that's a ridiculous title for a blog post. "You have to let little kids be little kids," you'll cry! (And I'll agree, and tell you to keep reading.)

Or maybe you're here anticipating that I'll be talking about pushing down the curriculum, to give your child a head-start academically. (You'll be disappointed- but please keep reading, because you'll learn something that you need to know.)

It does seem far-fetched, and possibly irrelevant, to think about your preschooler (and by preschooler, I mean any child who hasn't got to school age yet) in terms of the teenager he or she will become. I want you to put that feeling aside for a minute, and put this in its place:

YOU REAP WHAT YOU SOW.

Modelling
risk to my
4-yr-old

What you are doing right now, in bringing up your young child to the best of your ability, is like making a wine. You're choosing your 'grapes' to plant. It won't matter how carefully you nurture the vines, how skilfully you crush the fruit, how long you age the finished product, if you plant poor quality grapes to start with. What you are doing right now is creating a certain type of teenager in the future, through your parenting choices now.

Scary, huh? There's a lot of responsibility involved. It's daunting.

So let's have a look at some of the characteristics of teenagers that can be the most challenging, and how to 'plant the right grape vines' to avoid the worst of it.

The sulkily silent teenager

Look, they're nearly all like that at some stage (believe me, I spent 25 years teaching them- I KNOW!). You won't escape completely. But what you do need to do is to keep the channels of communication open- you still need to have a relationship with that bundle of hormones skulking in their bedroom all day.

The best way to achieve that is by treating your child with respect and authenticity from Day 1. What does that look like with a preschooler? Well, I could write a whole book about it (and if you search those terms on this blog you'll find a LOT of posts about them), but let's just skim the basics.

Firstly, and most importantly, tell even very small children the truth- don't hide things from them, not even the hard stuff, and give reasons for what you do and say and feel. Trust them with the truth, because little kids can sense atmosphere and they can often smell a lie and it scares the heck out of them.

My boy on the verge of adolescence

For example, sometimes you'll feel sad yourself. If Granny's terribly sick, say, talk it through with them. If you're upset about something that happened at work, tell them why in age-appropriate terms. Explain yourself, and even if they don't understand all the nuances, they'll feel included and respected- and even if they too feel sad now, it's a LOT better than feeling scared. (And you might be touched and comforted by the genuineness of their response.)

Remember, you're their role model- so tell the truth and model openness about feelings now, and you're halfway to getting the truth told to you in return when they're adolescents.

Don't patronise them, don't use baby talk, don't tell them they're 'too young to understand'. Communicate with them on a level that acknowledges their mental age. And communication goes two ways- really listen when they share their thoughts and ideas, because this stuff that might seem babyish to you is important to them right now, and you want them to keep sharing the important stuff, don't you?

Ask them what they're feeling- don't tell them. A child who's told what they're feeling (wrongly!) will internalise it and become confused; a teenager will just be furious with you and shut down. Don't assume you know. Actively encourage them to talk about feelings, even at this young age- it's important to avoid the short cuts. It only gets harder from here on.

The angry, disobedient, sly teenager

If you start being confrontational with your preschooler and setting up power struggles, you are begging for trouble. The 'give and take' starts now if you want to dodge this bullet.

Don't smack. Just don't. You wouldn't hit an adult- don't hit a child. It destroys respect, and it contradicts the basic social message of non-violence. Once your child gets to the teenage years, violence from you is NOT the dynamic you want to use to control behaviour- because that's the age when they start to intellectualise who deserves their respect, and who doesn't. You want to be on the right side of the line. Being called a hypocrite is one of the joys awaiting most parents of teenagers- don't fuel the fire by telling your preschooler to 'play nicely' and then smacking them when they don't.

A child who knows they'll be physically punished for wrongdoing becomes secretive, just in case what they're doing is considered wrong. A teenager who equates telling you their mistakes with physical punishment is just not going to be frank with you, and you'll have only yourself to blame.

And if you keep punishing by hitting, how far will you have to escalate it to get obedience from a 16-year-old? They'll likely hit you back, and they certainly won't be obeying you once they're out of your sight. STOP HITTING NOW. You can't put the toothpaste back in the tube on this one.

And do try to keep calm. Try not to sweat the small stuff, because you're creating a template for the future. If you deal with every little thing at the same level of hype on the misbehaviour thermometer, how will your child learn to recognise when you're really upset? Take a deep breath before you fly off the handle, and remember that this child- of whatever age- is still learning, and you are his or her role model. (If you lose the plot and swat a backside, be big enough to apologise. If you can climb down, you'll rise an equal amount in a child's eyes.)

Try to use natural consequences rather than manufactured punishments. "You ate all the biscuits that I'd bought for this week, so now you feel sick- and now there are none left. I can't buy any more biscuits for you this week" translates easily later on to "You spent all your allowance that was meant for the whole week in one day, and so I'm not giving you more until next week's allowance is due. It's not my problem that you don't have enough left for your movie date."

Make your boundaries logical, explain yourself, and you are well on the way to having a teenager who may whine when you say no- yes, they'll all do that!- but will quietly respect (and learn from) your consistency.

Oh, and if you're a pushover now, don't expect them to do anything but walk straight through you later. You do need boundaries."No" does need to mean "no", not "maybe, depending on how hard you nag".

The teenager who pushes you away

Teenagers are intensely private. They are desperately trying to find out who they are, where they're going, what they want, how they fit in with their peers.

You can give your small child a head start by making sure they have plenty of free play where you are NOT hovering over them, approving or disapproving their every move and trying to be part of the game.

You can try to let them choose their own friends, and find out for themselves if someone is a poor choice of companion.

Dinosaurs bore me to tears- but I'll
still encourage kids to express
their interest in them.

You can take notice of their interests and encourage them; you can let go of any notions that your child is a smaller version of yourself, or that you can somehow predetermine his or her pathway in life by pushing him or her towards the activities that fit your own agenda.

Parenting is a process of letting go. You need to start young.

The teenager who takes big risks

The evidence is in. Our children are growing up in a risk-averse society, and as a result their risk assessment skills are shot when they get to the teenage years.

You can help fix this for your child. You can allow risky play at home (there's another search for you- there are many posts about risky play on this blog, and hundreds out there on the wider internet). You can choose a care centre where the children are allowed to climb trees, and play with sticks, and mess around with water, and do the things that their grandparents did as children without anyone threatening legal action.

If you wrap your small child in cotton wool, that child will get to the teenage years with no experience of judging risk. The mistakes will be bigger. The consequences may be tragic. A little pain now may save you terrible grief later.

* * * * *

I could probably write a whole book on this topic, but that's enough to think about for one blog post. Try to think a little more long-term in the parenting decisions you make. There isn't some magic moment when a toddler becomes a preschooler, or a preschooler becomes a schoolchild, or a schoolchild becomes a teenager. It's a continuum. What you have here is a baby teenager, and you need to think in terms of what you are planting in that creature's mind that will come to fruition in ten or twelve years.

Happy wine-making!

Are 'gifted' children really so different?

2012-05-25T16:53:00.001+10:00

My post on gifted toddlers has made a little splash out there in internet land. I've had some very interesting conversations as a result. For example, Janet Lansbury (whose post 'No Bad Kids- toddler discipline without shame' was referenced in that post) brought up one issue which recurs often enough for me to deal with it in more detail. She commented:

"I truly believe that every child deserves this level of respect and sensitivity. Yes, the brighter the child, the more sensitive he or she usually is...but ALL children need this...don't you think?"

What an excellent point to raise. And of course the answer is a wholehearted 'yes'. All children deserve respect. All children deserve an authentic response. The advice I gave that mother could be applied to any child, really- respect and authenticity would work to improve the behaviour of just about any child.

My gifted boy at 4, captivating the crowd
with his rendition of '5 Cheeky Monkeys'.
Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. But he
WOULD NOT go to bed.

So what exactly is it about gifted children that needs extra care? Are they really so different from other children? And why do the parents of gifted children seem to need extra assistance with their parenting, if it's really just a matter of keeping to the same path as with other kids?

I'd like to welcome you now into my Year 10 music theory classroom. It's my first year teaching at this extremely selective private school, and my third year in the classroom. Before me is a class of 14- to 15-year-old girls, all competent musicians, and I'm confidently showing them how to add four-part vocal harmony to a melody I've written on the board.

The average IQ in this room, I would guess, is around the 130 mark. (It's a VERY selective school.)

I've completed the exercise when a smirking blonde up the back raises her hand. (If I had to guess, based on what I know now, I'd say that her IQ is around the 180 mark; she will be dux of the school one day.)

"There are consecutive fifths in the third bar," she says.

Now, for the non-musicians out there, 'consecutive fifths' in 4-part harmony constitutes a pretty basic error. It's Harmony 101, actually. Yes, the teacher has made a mistake, and our keen observer- let's call her Harriet- has picked it in one glance. (She's probably been hanging on my every word all the way to bar 8, to see if the blooper in bar 3 was a trap I'd set on purpose.)

This is a crucial moment, where I have to make a vital choice. What I choose to do with Harriet's comment will determine more than the outcome of this lesson- the level of respect and authenticity I show in my answer will determine whether I have Harriet's respect, not just for the rest of the lesson but for the rest of the year.

And that is the difference.

Let's have a close look at what just happened, and the significance of each aspect of it.

The first thing to note here is that the intellectually gifted child has challenged me on what I think of as my own safe territory. Naturally, I will have an emotional reaction to that! I might become angry that a student has dared to challenge me. I might feel upset with myself, or guilty that I haven't prepared well enough. Whatever emotion surfaces at this point, I won't be ready for it. I am at a disadvantage. I will be so busy dealing with my own feelings that Harriet's humanity may not even get a look in.

The second thing to note is that Harriet has an intellect commensurate with or superior to my own, and the emotional maturity of a 14-year-old girl. Harriet is smart enough to pick up a mistake which I missed, but she's not mature enough to realise that the kindest course of action would be to call me over and whisper in my ear- instead she's exposed me to possible ridicule by the whole group, because that's what teenage girls tend to do with new teachers.

The third thing to note is that my reaction will be assessed both intellectually and emotionally by this gifted child. If I respond irrationally or try to bluff, Harriet will pick it at once with her razor-sharp intellect, then respond with 14-year-old, hormonally-fuelled intensity.

Yep, that's me, and I'm
so obviously thinking
'I'm not happy'!

Are you starting to see yet? The difference is not all in the child. The difference is partly in the startling imbalance between the gifted child's intellectual and emotional maturity, and partly in the interaction of some very complex emotional factors between adult and child.

So parenting a gifted child, especially if you've not experienced giftedness before and are relying on a standard manual of child-rearing techniques (aka 'this is the way I was brought up' and 'my friends say I should do this' and 'this worked with my other children'), can be rather unnerving (to say the least). It's a job that can be very, very unforgiving. Dropping one's guard and cutting corners when interacting with a gifted child can have pretty devastating results for the parent. 'Because I said so' just isn't an option.

This is why so many parents (and teachers!) of gifted children get into trouble; they follow old patterns which have worked okay for children whose intellectual and chronological ages are in sync. And when they put one foot wrong, the child strikes back with a radioactive cloud of logic, and resentment, and even disdain.

Cooperating at parties was NOT
my strong point. Working out
which button to press in order
to be taken home.

In a very young gifted child, that may translate as wilfully ignoring a parent's attempts to discipline them, arguing the point with precocious logic, throwing tantrums and pressing the parent's buttons with incredible accuracy, refusing to cooperate at the worst possible moment... and so on. Don't just double the problems of raising any young child, because your gifted child will give you compound interest on every misstep.

My success as a teacher of the gifted hinged on many, many delicate moments every day, such as the one I've described with Harriet. For the parents of a gifted child, life is one long string of tests. Gifted children do not accept the status quo. They challenge us, and wait for our response, and bring down their verdict. The sentence, when we get things wrong, will likely be based on some hideous cocktail of their emotional and intellectual ages.

So I guess you're still wondering what I said to Harriet. This is pretty much how the conversation went from there.

Harriet: There are consecutive fifths in the third bar.

Me: (looks at board) (stunned silence while I feel like a complete fool and look for the error)

Harriet: (in the tone of voice one might use to an idiot child) Between the D and E in the alto and the G and A in the bass.

Me: So there are. Well picked. Did anyone else see them? (rest of class shake heads)

Me: See, even teachers make mistakes. That ought to make you feel better. (laughter from class) Can everyone see the problem now? (nods) Okay, so how are we going to fix them now Harriet's found them? Harriet, how about you come up and show us how to get around it, because I bet you've worked it out already.

(Harriet comes forward grinning, and immediately changes some notes to eliminate the 5ths)

Problem solved, and I'm not talking about the vocal harmony. Harriet and I maintained a mutually respectful relationship until she left school (and yes, she did learn some tact!).

I did have an advantage here, remember- despite my youth and lack of experience, I had been a gifted child myself. I just did what I would have liked a teacher to do, if I was Harriet:

Admit the mistake.

Show respect for the child's advanced intellectual accomplishment, but be the adult with regard to the emotional blooper; don't get into a battle, ignore the undesirable, model good behaviour.

Involve the child in the solution; give a challenge commensurate with the child's intellectual age.

Of course it's not that easy if you're in the thick of things as a parent, and if you're just learning about giftedness. You may well have to deal with the strong feeling that a mere child shouldn't be challenging you. It seems to go against the natural order of things.

But this is the natural order with a gifted child- you will have to explain, constantly. You will have to be truthful, constantly. You will have to show respect, constantly.

And then you will have to remember that this child is 3, or 10, or 14, and try to remember that emotionally you are still the leader. You still need to show this child where the boundaries are. You still need to do this with quiet confidence. And you can not show quiet confidence if you have let that child upset you with their intellectual button-pressing.

So the answer to my question? Intellectually, yes, gifted children are that different. They may put you way off balance with their precocious talk, and logic, and argumentativeness, and correction of your mistakes. They may punish you more savagely for forgetting to use respect and authenticity.

But the bottom line is, Janet's right- just like other kids, they need you to be the grown-up. You might not be smarter than them, but you are still their rock. You are still their guide. You are still their best emotional resource and their role model.

Don't let yourself be distracted by the brains.

The challenges of a gifted toddler

2012-05-19T16:56:00.001+10:00

I've written already about the difficulties of caring for gifted preschoolers, but what about the precociously gifted toddler? The challenges can be pretty daunting when your two-year-old has an astoundingly advanced ability to communicate, coupled with the normal emotional meltdowns associated with this age group. The parenting books just don't deal with this stuff.

At 18 months, mine already
expressed himself clearly!

I was lucky; when I was parenting my 2-year-old gifted child, I was being mentored by the giftedness guru Miraca Gross through professional development in my workplace. She made me feel sane. Honestly, a toddler who can express himself well enough to argue the point logically while melting down is a pretty crazy-making phenomenon.

And this is pretty much the problem that confronted "Angelique" when she asked me for help with her 2-year-old, "Julius". (Thank heavens for the new message function in FB Timeline pages!)

She started by thanking me for my post about gifted preschoolers, and describing her 2-year-old son Julius in general terms.

Angelique: ...My son also was one to walk at 11 months. It's actually pretty amazing how broad his vocabulary is, because 6 months ago he had a 90% blockage of his adenoids... I couldn't imagine how much he'd be talking if he DIDN'T have medical issues! ...My family used to think I was crazy because I would explain something to Julius, or I would squat down to his level and explain why he could/couldn't do something. For the longest time he thought we would have to squat together to converse... Now everyone in the family (the ones who thought I was nuts) now squat to his level and ask him to look them in the eyes as I have always done...

...Also speaking softer than him always caught his attention (since he couldn't hear very well). It also taught him he didn't always have to yell after having his surgery. His psychologist said he could be one of those crazy kids who graduate at 10... Not into that, because the kid needs to have a childhood, however I am trying my best to teach him new things... Today we painted with watercolors instead of finger paint which he has never done and LOVED.... always looking for something new to pique his interest! I truly appreciate your insight and I appreciate the offer to turn to you for help!

So far so good; Angelique is already doing many of the things her little son needs, despite pressure to maintain what society thinks of as 'age-appropriate childrearing strategies', and I try to reinforce this.

Aunt Annie: You hold your ground- sounds like you are doing all the right things. I found my gifted son made me a good parent because he wouldn't stand for anything else. With a gifted child you HAVE to be respectful, and authentic, and all those things I talk about in the blog. A long as you're paying attention to his actual needs rather than what's expected, you will be fine! But I am here when you want to talk something over.

At Julius' age, mine started to refuse to be
photographed. See him pushing away from
me? There are years in which all I have is
a school photo of him, mostly scowling.

Having been through the gifted-child experience, I could have put money on Angelique hitting a wall at some stage- and a month or so later, this was in my message box.

Angelique: Ok, so you told me if I ever needed advice I could ask you... I'm about to lose my mind and I'm desperate, so here I am!

I'm not exactly sure how I am supposed to deal with Julius' emotional issues... It seems like they are MUCH more extreme then other 2 year olds his age. His feelings are hurt, and he'll tell you exactly how it has hurt him- and he is now starting to take his frustrations out on his brother.

Early obsessions: normal.
My son was obsessed with
Thomas the Tank Engine
(here he is as the Fat
Controller for Book Week!)

His OCD and anxiety has been MAGNIFIED with his brother lately (his little brother has been in and out of hospitals the last 3 months so Julius is having problems dealing. I am trying to do things to make him feel special, and giving him special time with just me and him.) But he freaks when his brother touches his things, or does something that he thinks in his little gifted mind is unacceptable. I can't help but laugh sometimes when he tells his brother "No hands, baby Aidan, that's my stuff", like the baby will understand, and gives him a baby toy instead.

SOOO I guess my main question is, how in the world do you deal with the different emotional issues, and how am I supposed to discipline a 2-year-old who is WAY past the whole time out

stage?

Aughh, being a mom of a gifted kid is hard work.... almost as hard as his baby brother's medical issues! The 3 of us were all crying in the living room the other day, so I'm asking for advice from the best person I know for this! Thank you again for your insight and being an amazing source of info for me!

Poor Angelique. Here's the strategy I dreamed up for her.

Aunt Annie: Well, the first thing you need is a HUG!

*HUG*

Wow, you really are copping it, aren't you? Look, I'm not a great believer in time out these days. I used to use it myself, but I think its main value was to let ME cool down. 'Time in' is actually more settling for the child- i.e. where you separate him physically from whatever he's doing that totally SUCKS (kicking and screaming if necessary), and then spend time with him.

So with Julius, who is so advanced intellectually and verbally, you actually have a slight advantage here- you can use more complex 4/5-yr-old concepts when talking him through the terrible twos. Yes, he is being a completely normal 2-yr-old emotionally- bright 2-yr-olds can be VERY out there when they lose the plot. IT WILL STOP. He WILL grow out of it.

If you can hold it together enough to NARRATE what's happening without value judgments, it will help. Set a boundary. Then try talking and acknowledging the feelings, plus reinforcing acceptable ways to express those feelings.

So, say the baby has his toy. You stop his hands from whatever inappropriate thing they're doing to the baby, hold him so he can't do it again, but lovingly, and say calmly and firmly "I see that the baby has your toy and I see that you have some big feelings happening. I won't let you hit the baby (or grab things from the baby, or shout at the baby). If you want to hit, you can hit this pillow (or tear this paper, or shout and stamp your feet outside)."

When the rage subsides a bit... "Can you tell me about the big feelings when the baby takes your toys? Are you angry? Or are you sad?" And let him talk.

You can introduce the word jealousy, acknowledge that the baby is taking a lot of your time and that he's sad about it, tell him you understand. Maybe you can talk about your own childhood or some other relatives' childhoods, how they had little brothers/sisters and were jealous, but are glad they have a sibling now. Be real. Be authentic.

Another way of letting him release feelings is with puppets. Maybe you could get a baby puppet and act out the baby taking his toys, and let him work out some ways to deal with it. If you can introduce some humour, he will really appreciate it!

Mine melted down if not given
real tools and treated with
respect for his intellectual age.

It does sound as though he is particularly sensitive. Many very, very bright children share some of the extreme sensitivities of kids with Asperger's Syndrome- my brother is a perfect example. He would melt down over crazy stuff like my mother feeding him peas- he hated hard stuff in his mouth. And me? I still melt down over conflicting noises, like someone talking to me over the TV, or someone who has the radio and TV on at once. Now I am NOT saying Julius has anything like that, but some of the strategies can be very useful with hypersensitive kids.

Try to avoid overstimulating him. Keep your environmental colours fairly neutral, try not to have too much mess around (hahahahaha very funny with a baby and a 2 yr old, I know!), avoid loud music playing, have safe places for Julius to retreat to AWAY from the baby. If the baby is driving him nuts, buy a low-rise playpen and put JULIUS'S TOYS in there, so the baby can't get them but he can.

It's VERY important that you have firm, clear boundaries around what is not acceptable with the baby, and with you. Have you read Janet Lansbury's page about 'No Bad Children- Toddler discipline without shame'? Go to www.janetlansbury.com and look in her most popular posts. Emotionally, Julius is 2. Intellectually, he is way above that, but you need to deal with the toddler emotions in a toddler-appropriate way.

Have a think about all this and get back to me!

Well, Angelique messaged me back within a matter of hours.

Angelique: THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU... So I am going to be printing that blog and putting it on my fridge!

It's nice to know this won't be my life forever and that this will end. Some days it doesn't feel like that, but it's nice to know it won't always be this hard! I guess once we are through this stage we'll go on to a different problem.

Julius DOES have some super sensitivities (that's actually what raised my concern and what got me mentioning something to the Dr, who then sent us to the psych). Noise is a BIG thing- and with a baby who is crying a portion of the day from pain, THIS drives Julius NUTS! He'll yell at the baby "STOP CRYING" constantly, and then freak out when Aidan falls asleep because he thinks he did something wrong- so he'll yell at the baby to "WAKE UP" because he's concerned! Asperger's was something we were looking at. The kiddo is VERY particular in a lot that he does, which I'm trying not to let get too obsessive.

So it's pretty amazing today... just by saying "I won't let you <fill in the blank> with the baby", it has totally changed the extent to which he tries to push his limits. Who knew those 4 words could change it?! I guess I'm personally struggling with the fact that he understands more then he should, but is doing things anyway (being 2). I guess I just have to remind myself that he's two- even though he acts older, he's still two.

I truly do appreciate your insight and cannot thank you enough... I actually have one of those big round play pens that have a door, that I bought after I had the baby. I took it out this morning and Julius has LOVED it! He has played in there (baby free), and I set it so the door is on the inside so he comes and goes as he wants and yet his things are "safe." He loves it, so I think I'll just keep it out for him.

I'm printing out what you wrote and sharing it with my husband and mom... you are amazing at what you do thank you!

Whew. I was just gobsmacked that this worked so quickly! Toddler parents, if you haven't read that Janet Lansbury post, skedaddle over there right now. Between Janet's understanding of respectful parenting and my understanding of giftedness, I reckon we've got this one nailed.

I replied to Angelique:

Aunt Annie: Oh Angelique, you made me cry. I am so pleased that what I said to you worked- though I'm not surprised!
The divide between emotional and intellectual maturity is probably the hardest thing to grasp about many gifted children. He still needs you to be a strong guiding hand on the boundary fence, regardless of his ability to talk and think in a somewhat precocious manner.

Later on, this will become an ability to reason and manipulate and argue in a frighteningly logical and assertive way, and you will need to be on your toes. Get ready to say "My job as your mum is to make sure you are able to be happy when you grow up. I know from experience that if I let you do this, it will make you unhappy later on, so I won't let you do it." (Followed by real examples, real stories- always give your evidence.) That strategy saved me on several occasions with my strong-willed, argumentative son. Be ready!

Also I want to congratulate you for your perception and calmness in seeing that Julius' sensitivities are beyond the 'average' and seeking professional help. Denial that there's a problem has never been helpful for a child- you have done the best and bravest thing for your son. Learning how to handle his sensitivities early will be so helpful for his development and give him the best chance to realise his amazing potential. Well done, you!

And she came back almost at once with this:

Angelique: Haha... well, reading what YOU put made ME cry! It's always nice to know that I'm not the only one going through this and that this stage WILL end!

His ability to argue & manipulate situations at 2 scares me because he can already get his point across... I'm in deep trouble when he's a teenager.

I have to confess... I'm totally one of those moms who will put my kids and their needs WAY before my pride & feelings. But we knew Julius was "different" when he was rolling at 2 months & crawling at 4 months, putting his toys away in the correct spots at 8 months etc... It just got more apparent when he could talk, so I took him to the Dr's. I would rather do what I can now to be able to get the best future for my kid. Thanks for everything!

And thanks to Angelique too, for letting me share her problem with other readers. She is so right about the gifted teenager- if you haven't nailed the relationship with the gifted child before puberty, your learning curve will be sending you backwards at a million miles an hour. Boundaries, parents, boundaries! Don't let that silver tongue fool you! If you label the gifted child 'cute' and allow him/her to get away with murder, you are asking for trouble.

Just sayin'!

Let's talk about money. And appreciation.

2012-05-18T16:28:00.000+10:00

For so many families, childcare is not really a choice. Oh sure, just about everything in our life involves a choice- I know that, believe me. But sometimes the alternatives to childcare are pretty dire.

You could choose not to have kids.

You could choose the one-parent-working route, and not even try to own your own house, or to have any more kids, or whatever that financial hardship might mean for you.

You could just give up on trying to work at all, and pay the rent and make ends meet on the dole.

And so on. Times are tough. All the alternatives have a price. Often childcare is the best option.

But boy, is it expensive!! It can make you feel ~~quite~~ very resentful to see all that money going out the door when you're working so hard to get it. And some of that resentment seems to get laid at the carers' and teachers' doors by some parents.

Making money to help out mum & dad?

Sometimes I think there might be a little bit of a misunderstanding happening.

Many families whose children are in care or at preschool during the day are in pretty dire financial straits. When you're financially stressed it's hard to see things clearly. Perhaps, because of these worries, parents can be a little blinded to the fact that the people who take care of their children are, more often than not, in the same financial boat.

I wonder how many of the parents who use Australian childcare and preschool facilities are actually aware of how little the workers are paid?

Let me give you an example of our wages. One private centre raised the daily fees to cover the cost of extra staff, as required by new legislation. The price ended up over $90 per day for babies. Any childcare worker at that centre who had their own baby in care- or, heaven help them, a baby plus one or more other child- had to seriously consider their options, because that $90 constituted the larger part of their daily wage after tax.

That's a pretty extreme example at a particularly expensive centre- but believe me, it's close to that bad for all of us workers. I don't have children at home, and I own my own home outright- but I still had the devil's own job surviving on my weekly salary when I was working full-time. All that money you're paying out for childcare is NOT, repeat NOT, filtering down to the workers. I've just been browsing the award wages for Early Childhood workers, and it's not pretty.

And this is where this blog post is heading. We're not here for the money. The money is terrible. Please keep that in mind, as you rush in and out of our centres with certain expectations of what all that hard-earned money is buying for you. Please keep that in mind, as you sit down (probably exhausted after work) for your parent-teacher interview.

Let's talk money a bit more, so you really get it.

Take the Early Childhood Teacher, or ECT- fully university trained, at great expense to themselves despite the recent increase in government support. Even with the current extra government support, an early childhood education degree can cost in the region of $700 per subject (and it's twice that without the government support) before we even consider buying textbooks and other expenses.

For example, to top up my Diploma to the lowest rung required for teaching preschool, I needed to study eight subjects. How many hours do you think it would take me to earn that $5,600, remembering that I also have to pay bills and eat, on my current casual Diploma wage of about $22 per hour? (It would be even less per hour if I were on a permanent wage.)

Our least qualified workers are trying to survive on less than that, and our most qualified teachers aren't making a significant amount more (as well as working untold hours of unpaid overtime). And so exactly how attractive do you imagine is it for the best high school graduates to take on a TAFE or uni course that will incur such a large loan compared to their earning power? (I can't imagine why there's a shortage of qualified ECT in EC settings, can you?)

The maths is frightening. In the end, the money we make from our qualifications is hardly worth the price of the piece of paper.
I can make $25 an hour nannying, and I'd only have to care for one family's children with no qualification needed, no paperwork to do and no after-hours expectations at all.

We're not here for the money.

And here's another real worry for the EC education workforce. Did you know that once a worker obtains an Early Childhood teaching degree, they're paid significantly more for working in the infants' department of a primary school than for working in an early childhood care setting?

That's right- same qualification, equivalent workloads and stresses- but lower wages.

Guess where most EC teachers want to work? Yep, correct- most of them are in a long queue for a job in an infants' school. Not because they don't enjoy working in preschools or long day care, but because they simply can't survive on the wages offered. Many directors are having the devil's own time finding teaching staff who are committed to Early Childhood settings, rather than marking time till a job turns up in a school.

I'm sure you can imagine how this sometimes impacts on teacher quality. If you're financially stressed, if you're constantly wanting and waiting to be somewhere else, you're not going to give of your best. Fortunately there are some ECTs out there who are actually committed to EC settings- I hope you've been lucky enough to find one at your centre.

Playing at being the breadwinner?

Just quietly, it also impacts on gender representation in EC workers. Even in this day and age, men often feel the need to be (or are expected to be) the primary breadwinner in the family, and taking a poorly-paid EC job can be extremely challenging on an emotional level. Even the most outstanding male teacher in the world of EC blogging, Teacher Tom, admits that his career in EC education is a luxury afforded to him only by his wife's more lucrative career.

So what's my point?

My point is that despite this job being very unrewarding in terms of dollars, there are many wonderful, committed EC teachers and workers out there who would really appreciate your understanding and support. (And who would really appreciate it if you took your feelings about the fees out on the government, not on them.)

It's one thing to have a vocation for working with children, and to give freely of your own time to do your job the very best way you can. It's another thing entirely to be expected to go above and beyond the call of duty out of hours, or to be expected to do the work of parenting on top of the work of an educator during those poorly paid hours, or to be abused for not doing more within those full-to-the brim, underpaid hours of work.

The ECT who hands you a beautiful portfolio at the end of the year, full of your child's artwork and professionally written and evaluated observations, hasn't knocked that up during working hours while she kept one eye on the kids. She's done it in her own time- in fact she's probably done 25 or more of them in her own time, while her partner crankily queries the unpaid overtime and invasion of their relationship time. A little insight into what that cost the teacher in time, a little thank you from every parent- that would be really, really nice.

The carer who asks you to please send your three-year-old in shoes with velcro fasteners isn't being lazy or dodging his duties. He can support a child to tie their own laces if they have a clue already, but teaching them to do that is your job. He simply hasn't the time or the support to tie 25 sets of laces before the kids go outside. If your carer makes a simple request, there will be a good reason. Please don't make a fuss about it. If your carer can't do for 25 children everything that you would do for your own two or three, please don't be surprised and indignant.

The daycare worker who hands you a plastic bag of soiled clothes is not your washerwoman. She may have seven of those bags in the laundry bucket, and her eyes need to be on the children- not on the washing machine, and not on seven pairs of clean but unnamed underpants while she tries to work out what belongs to whom. Please don't berate her at pick-up time.

A little bit of appreciation and understanding goes a very long way. Many, many childcare workers and ECTs absolutely love working with your children, but the way they are being paid has no relationship whatsoever to the level of responsibility they accept (or, for that matter, to the number and quality of tasks expected of them by the regulations and by centre management). When they go home at the end of the day, it's to the same sorts of financial stresses as many of the parents, or worse.

You can make a difference to how we EC workers feel at the end of the day. All it takes is a little understanding and appreciation. Because really, the vast majority of your fees fly straight over our heads and disappear- into rent, and insurance, and power bills, and maintenance, and heaven knows what other running costs each centre must cover. And we, the staff, are left scrabbling around on the ground splitting up the small change for our wages.

We're only here for the love of it.

Mothers' Day at Annie's house

2012-05-13T09:45:00.001+10:00

Mothers' Day passes quietly in this house. My son is many miles away, and we've agreed that we won't subscribe to the Hallmark mentality; it's not necessary. I know that he appreciates me every single day of the year. He doesn't need to have a knee-jerk reaction to some randomly allocated date on the calendar to prove he loves me. Every time he calls me or pops up on my Gmail chat, it's Mothers' Day for me.

My mother

And my own mother- well, I'm sitting here by the fire looking at her photo, which sits high on a shelf in the living room where she can seem to watch my life unfold, and I can pretend she's not missing anything. Her ashes sit on another shelf, but I know that's not really her. That's just the bit of her that grounds me, and reminds me that everything passes. She's more inside my head, or floating in the atmosphere of my home, than in that jar.

Marjorie Daw

She's more present in my old doll, Marjorie Daw, the one that sits up against that jar of ashes. Marjorie Daw still wears a hand-made replica of an outfit my mother made for me fifty years ago. I won a prize the first day I modelled that ensemble, strutting proudly up and down the catwalk feeling like a million dollars, my matching doll in my arms.

I always felt confident that I looked good back in those days. What a gift to give to a little girl.

I'm not a pastel person.

My mother is present, too, in the throws that cover my lounge suite, and in the cushions that are dotted across them. I made them myself, using the skills she taught me from the time I could hold a needle or sit at a sewing machine. More gifts from her to me; the gift of inclusion in real work, the gift of play with real tools.

She wouldn't have used those colours, mind you; she was a pastel person in decorating terms. But she would have let me choose them for myself. I think of my old bedroom, which she allowed me to paint black when I was a teenager. (And what a teenager I was. I was horrid.) The black walls ended up covered with white line drawings of my favourite musicians; it was quite a room. It was tiny, but it was MINE.

A talent for laughter...

It took her four coats of lavender to cover all that when I left home- FOUR coats- but she found that funny rather than irritating. I was always, always allowed to be myself, to express myself.

And there was always more laughter in our house than whining; mishaps weren't classed as disasters. Even today, it's easy to make me laugh at myself when I get cranky. That's a gift worth having, too.

...often at herself

Good choice, R!

My mother is here in the photo of my daughter-in-law, too, even though they never met. She died when my son was just two, yet enough of her remained in my son's subconscious for him to be attracted to a woman who had much in common with her. The dry but razor-sharp wit, the quiet intelligence, the ability to express difficult feelings calmly, the affinity for handcrafts and the ability to be completely happy in her own company- all these I recognise. Never believe a two-year-old retains nothing in his memory. At two, my gifted and very challenging son felt completely comfortable with my mother. At nineteen, he found the same atmosphere with another woman, and immediately chose her for life.

My daughter-in-law is a gift. How many women can say they genuinely love their son's wife?

My mother's chair sits in the corner. I hardly ever sit in it, but it's always full. It's bursting with memories. Mostly, I see her sitting there towards the end, in terrible pain but smiling while my little son tells her stories to distract her. Looking at that chair I can hear her voice. Voices are forgotten eventually, you know; the day you forget a lost soul's voice and can't hear it in your head is a dark day indeed. But between my son and that chair, the sound is still locked in my head 25 years later.

My mother's here in the books that are scattered through the room. Even when we were flat broke, somehow we managed to have books in the house. And those books were a symbol of time spent together. I remember going to the local children's library with her; what hours we spent there, browsing the shelves, sitting on the floor reading because we couldn't wait till we were at home again to open the book. I remember her sitting on my bed when I was deathly sick with rheumatic fever, reading the chapter of 'Anne of Green Gables' where Anne accidentally dyes her hair green while I laughed helplessly and forgot I was ill.

And she's right here in this computer, even though she never used one in her life. I tap away and remember how she let me use her typewriter to discover the joy of words. If my two-finger typing is faster than most experts' ten-finger efforts, it's down to that early start. And I remember the poems and stories we wrote together at that old machine, until I was good enough to use it to write up my own early compositions.

It's Mothers' Day- and though I haven't received a single card or present, I'm sitting here surrounded by gifts.

The 7 Deadly Sins of carers

2012-05-03T12:53:00.000+10:00

Quite a while ago, I wrote a post about the 7 deadly sins of childcare parenting, from the point of view of carers. It was the product of extreme frustration!

Today I'm feeling frustrated too, but it's not with the parents. The boot's on the other foot today- I'm reflecting on some of the blatant errors I've seen over and over again from carers.

So here's the balancing post. Here are some things that carers commonly get wrong.

1. Different strokes for different folks, part (a)

Oh my, this makes me mad. Some carers seem to think that they are somehow superior to the children they're caring for, and so don't need to observe the same behavioural boundaries.

So we get the carers who tell the children to wash their hands before meals, but don't wash hands themselves (and then serve up without so much as a glove on, or stick their hand into the fruit plate to grab a grape while telling the kids to USE THE TONGS!). We get the carers who tell the children to be quiet by shouting at them. We get the carers who insist the children say please and thank you, but won't do the same themselves- neither to their colleagues, nor to the children. I could go on and on with examples here, and sadly it's always the same people exhibiting these blatantly non-constructive behaviours.

What this behaviour says to me is that this carer feels very insecure. Childcare isn't a power game. Carers are already bigger and louder and more powerful than children. Someone who gets their kicks from emphasising the power ratio has a personality problem that needs to be addressed.

Such carers are also demonstrating their ignorance of basic ECE principles. Children learn through modelling, not through being told. You don't lessen your influence over the children by doing the same things yourself that you want them to do- you increase your influence.

2. Different strokes for different folks, part (b)

Then there are the carers who treat children differently from each other based not on the child's needs, but on some hierarchy of their own devising.

The director's daughter, for example, is allowed special privileges so she'll 'like' that carer and report back favourably. A personal friend's children get more time and more attention, and the parent who's a friend gets more feedback, as a mark of friendship. A child with special needs (including being gifted) is labelled as 'difficult' and given less affection, more unsympathetic direction- because that saves the carer from having to wrestle with the real dilemmas involved.

A carer who discriminates like this isn't winning anyone's respect. Favoured children don't respect a carer who they can manipulate; they become even more difficult for everyone to manage, as they test how far they can go. Needy children who are denied their fair share of the attention pie will become more demanding, or will withdraw (which is in itself more demanding, as barriers can be hard to break down once erected).

This carer makes life harder for everyone around them.

3. Pay me to think

Gotta love the carer who never puts a moment's thought into what they're going to do while they're at work. It's all on the run, because you know, the wages are so low that I'm not going to spend My Time thinking about work. So on arrival out come the same old toys, out come the same old paints, a few books get chucked on the shelves. (Group time? Oh, I'll work that out when I get there. I'll just grab a book I've never seen in my life before and get half the words and all the expression wrong as I read it, because I'm not even listening to myself, let alone thinking about it as education.)

They're the first to complain that the children, who've had no experience whatsoever of structure or routine, won't do what they're told. They're the first to complain and blame the children when boredom sets in, when group time becomes diabolical with children swinging from the rafters instead of sitting on the mat listening, when the paperwork comes due and no thinking or planning has been done at all. Damn this EYLF, damn this programming! Damn these children!

They're the first to complain that they get no job satisfaction.

The irony is that the more you put into it, the easier it gets. The longer you've been planning your work, the less time it takes to plan your work. The more experiences you plan, the bigger your personal library of ideas for each demographic of children. The easier it gets, the more fun it is, till you get to the point where you actually realise what a privilege it is to be working with children every day.

It ONLY gets easier if you put in the effort.

Honestly, if your heart isn't in it enough to consider the kids' needs and interests and actually enjoy planning the day's stimuli and experiences, you really do need to find another career.

4. Children? What children?

How I love the carer who spends the whole day talking to the other carers over the children's heads. (I've even seen one who does it when she's supposed to be taking group time, while all the kids sit politely on the mat waiting in silence. Ha ha. Or not. And then she has the hide to yell at them?!)

That's also the carer who gossips to one parent for half an hour in the yard, completely ignoring her supervision duties. Honey, I really don't want to know where you got your spray tan, and probably neither does Mrs Brown. And while you're yaddering on about nothing, who's watching the children?

I'm even more fond of the one who talks to the other carers about the children, over their heads. News flash: children are not deaf. Children have feelings too. STOP IT.

5. Dinosaur syndrome

Then there's the archaeological carer. Her knowledge base is firmly rooted in the past- in her own parenting methods, her own childhood experiences, her long-outdated education. His resistance to change, including professional development, is astounding; it's his way or the highway. Research evidence is rejected with a sarcastic laugh and a finely-tuned and original riposte such as "what that child needs is a paddle on the backside- it never did me any harm" or "children aren't taught any manners / respect / discipline these days".

When you stop learning, you don't stand still at the top of the heap. You don't get to a point in your education where you can just stay sitting on top of some pedestal and lording it over everyone. When you stop learning, your knowledge starts to crumble, because life is dynamic. Society is dynamic. You have to keep moving and keep learning and keep improving, or you end up extinct. If you want to be extinct, please get out of my way, go lie in the mud and wait to be turned into a fossil. In fact I may just provide the seismic event to help you along your way.

6. It's okay. It's not okay. It's okay. It's not okay.

A little consistency goes a long way in childcare.

How about this example? A carer talks about nutrition, tells the children how cake is a 'sometimes' food, stresses that it rots your teeth and makes you fat.

Then the giant cupcakes come out at morning tea because it's someone's birthday. Everybody's eyes light up. No reference whatsoever is made to the food pyramid. The kids get an individual cupcake each that's bigger than their head because that's how the cake was presented and nobody on staff has ever heard of a knife, and the carer scoffs three herself while talking loudly to the other carers about how she loves cake and always eats too much of it. The others reassure her that this is perfectly normal, they're the same... scoffing another cake each themselves...

Oh dear. Please, can we be just a little bit holistic about things? Can we not look at what we teach in the 'educational' pigeonhole as being completely separate from how we behave the rest of the day? Don't you know the kids are watching you and listening to you?

7. Gotta prove I'm smarter than you

Last but not least is the carer who just can't wait to show that she or he knows something the child doesn't. Never mind that children learn by doing, not by being told; this carer's far too impatient and full of ego to let kids figure things out for themselves, to let them struggle with a problem, to support instead of doing it for them.

This is the carer who puts their hand on the child's hand to 'help' them fit that pesky wooden jigsaw piece into the hole, then 'helps' them finish it by putting in half-a-dozen more pieces themselves. "Oh look, it's finished!" (You want me to clap?)

This is the carer who refuses to let a child climb into the lowest fork of a tree, barely six inches off the ground. "You'll fall and hurt yourself." (Meaningless. And almost certainly wrong, if you'd only butt out and stop making me doubt myself.)

This is the carer who tells the group of boys that their car ramp will fall down, butts in and makes a better one for them. (You want me to clap?)

There's no learning happening in these interactions. The carer hasn't put themselves in the child's shoes. Doing things for someone as a means of 'helping' is an adult construct; nine times out of ten, these children neither want nor need help, though they often enjoy the company. Giving predictive advice ("you'll fall", "that ramp will break") is an adult construct; these children need to find out these things for themselves in order to learn.

No, when a person who's been educated in child development does this sort of thing, it's often all about the carer feeling superior because they're the leader. They're the one doing the showing how. (You sure you don't want me to clap? I can clap if you like...)

It's more than a little pathetic.

Well, that feels better now I've got that off my chest! Do you recognise some of these people? Do you recognise yourself, even? I've been guilty of some of these sins along the way, though I've learnt better these days. (I'll admit to having had to work my way through 5, 6 and 7- and 7 has been the hardest habit to break.)

What other 'sins' can you add to my list?

A risky play morning with a 2-year-old

2012-04-27T13:24:00.002+10:00

A while ago I had the pleasure of the company of "Darius", who is in that interesting not-quite-a-toddler, not-quite-a-preschooler stage.

Now, let it not be said that I experiment on the children I babysit, but one part of my brain was very interested in what Darius would seek out for play experiences. (Okay, okay, so I may have incorporated a little bit of research into my supervision.) He had never been to our farm before; he had never met me before. I wondered if he would be more comfortable inside playing with my quite large collection of age-appropriate toys, or if he would naturally tend towards more risky play, the exploration of the unknown outdoors. I decided to just let him lead, and see what happened.

Well, the first thing that happened was that he clung to dad's leg and hid his face. Pretty normal.

"Don't be shy, Darius," said dad, obviously a bit embarrassed. "Say hello."

"That's okay," said I to dad, smiling at Darius who was peeking around dad's leg by now. "He's never been here before and he doesn't know me. He doesn't have to say hello if he's not ready yet."

To Darius, I said, "You can be shy if you want to, Darius. It's all new, isn't it?"

Instant eye contact. It's amazing how recognising and naming a child's feelings, without judgment, can cut through the ice. It was all easy from there on in; he stayed with dad, but he was watching me and listening to me.

The first thing to separate Darius from the safety of dad's leg was not a shiny, colourful toy. It was this.

I guess that's not surprising. The turkey chicks are still small enough to be cute and non-threatening. Darius spent some time happily chasing them through the bush. (Um, yes, through the bush.) Totally focussed, totally without fear.

I followed at a trot through the trees, thinking the usual carer-risk-assessment thoughts.

What if he falls over and lands on a stick and (insert dreadful injury)?

Don't be daft. Look at him. He's absolutely competent on his feet, and he's picking his way through the trees and avoiding sticks on the ground perfectly well. Probability: minimal.

All the time, I was consciously stopping myself from saying "Be careful!" He WAS being careful. The last thing he needed was me distracting him from what he was doing. But yes, it was an effort to shut myself up!

Snakes?

Probability: minimal. The weather's way too cool. But I'll keep a little ahead of him now, just in case.

Then I realised that the turkeys would tell me if a snake's around long before human eyes spotted it, and relaxed. There's about as much chance of stepping on a snake here as there is of being involved in a major car accident driving to the shops. And that's only in high summer, not in autumn.

At one point, back in the clearing, he sloughed his shoes and continued running barefoot.

What if he steps on a bull-ant?

I mentioned this to dad, and he replied "Well, he won't do it again, will he?"

Bravo, dad. To my knowledge no-one's ever died from being bitten by a bull-ant, though it's an unpleasant experience. And once bitten, yes, you do start to look out for them to prevent it from happening again.

It was really good for me to engage in this type of in-the-wild supervision- experiences like this stop me from being too glib about advertising risky play as though it's easy for carers to achieve. Fifteen minutes of this, in a genuinely untamed bit of bush, reminded me of the very real fears that go through our minds when we let kids free-range. Yes, I really do appreciate how easy and attractive it is to confine children to bland, 'safe' areas, to try to avoid having to do this on-the-run risk assessment. Yes, it's quite mentally and emotionally taxing to let kids test themselves. Yes, you do feel fearful that something will go wrong, that you'll be held responsible.

But honestly, it's worth it. All the time Darius had been on the run, he'd been asking questions about the birds, and I'd been answering as well as pointing out other interesting things to see. By the time he'd tired of chasing the turkeys, Darius was grinning, relaxed, talking twenty to the dozen and ready to accept me as his carer for the morning.

Had he run off his nerves? Maybe. Or was he just appreciating not being thwarted, being allowed to do what felt good to him? Maybe.

Here are some more things that attracted Darius' attention, once he'd accepted me:

Now, let it be said that my dog is the safest dog in the world for a little kid to play with, and Darius was used to dogs. I definitely do NOT recommend letting a 2-year-old approach any old dog that takes their fancy. That's not risky play, that's just downright dangerous. The trick is to teach them some boundaries around dogs in general, and if that means grabbing their hands and saying firmly "I won't let you do that", go for it. You really do have to reinforce that approaching strange dogs is OUT.

Darius had already been taught a little caution by his parents, and so he was quite safe patting my very friendly dog. Even so, I stayed right there next to him. You just never know.

These also caught his eye:

Again, these are well-behaved animals, and they're also very shy- but they're large, heavy animals nonetheless, and so I stayed close by while Darius inspected them from a rather cautious distance. He didn't show any inclination to touch them, once we were close enough for him to see how big they were.

Darius was actually more taken by this:

My bottle-reared sheep provoked a very interesting risk dynamic. You see, she thinks she's a dog. So she had no hesitation in walking right up to Darius looking for food, and he showed immediate awareness of his limits by hiding behind my leg. Right up close, she might not have been as big as the alpacas, but she was as tall as him and clearly far, far bulkier.

I interacted with her for a short time, talking to Darius about her, and he gradually relaxed again- but still wouldn't touch her. You see? He had a natural awareness of some danger to his person- probably a natural reaction to the sheep's size compared to his own.

We often don't need to press the point. If something's lethal, we shouldn't have a child near it. Otherwise, we need to allow our kids a bit more space to assess a risk, before we move in with our own fears. Let their instincts develop naturally.

When Darius had a bit more confidence in the layout of the farm, he did something a bit more risky; he decided to take off to 'find' the alpacas by himself. I let him go off across the clearing, watching from a distance. (Yes, he thought he was ready to go wandering on a strange farm at two and a half. I bit back the natural tendency to stop him.)

Well, not only did he find the alpacas- he found my sheep too, and she ran towards him excitedly. Freak-out! Darius screamed, turned and ran back to me sobbing.

I picked him up, out of reach of my pushy wanna-be-a-dog give-me-food black sheep, and he quickly regained his composure.

So what do we make of that? Was it a terrible thing to do, letting him run off by himself to get a big fright?

I don't think so. There was no real danger present. Darius tested his limits and found them; end of story. He didn't try to run off by himself again all morning. Surely that's a good thing. When we let kids take risks, they learn.

I mean, if I'd forbidden him to go off across that paddock by himself, would he have tried to sneak away when I was distracted? There are dams on our property too. There are gullies with water at the bottom. There are long tracks through tall trees and thick bush, where even I've got lost once or twice.

No, no, no. Much better that he found his own limits, while I watched from afar.

At one stage, when I needed to go into the house for a while, I offered Darius some toys. This is what I offered him:

You know, he really wasn't much interested. He played with the bus for a while, rolling it down the ramp, but he found this much more interesting:

Children like real tools- tools that adults can play with too. They don't always need to have scaled-down, pretend toys.

Yes, it was noisy. I lived. I bit my tongue again when he bashed his hands down, waiting for the moment when he'd find a different way of playing. He did. I just had to be patient, survive the loud bit, and wait for him to discover playing with one finger, playing with two fingers, playing softly.

We played elephant music. We played mouse music.

And soon after this, he wanted to go outside again, where he played with these:

You can see how tiny those flowers are- those are my fingers next to the yellow one. He found all these playthings himself. He examined them, and collected them, and brought them back to the house to play with some more.

Yes, he played with sticks. He chose small ones, in proportion to his body. I didn't stop him. He didn't hurt himself.

Thus we spent a whole morning, a two and a half year old and a lady who had been a total stranger at the start, with only one little moment of tearfulness and not a single whine.

And what does all this tell me, that can be useful to you?

It tells me that children respond to being treated with respect. That child didn't even want to look at me when he arrived. With respectful treatment that acknowledged his space and his needs and his feelings, by the end of the morning he was cuddling me fiercely and not wanting to leave!

It tells me that we have to have more confidence in young children. We don't have to constantly entertain them. We don't have to treat them as though they have no concept whatsoever of risk. We would be well advised to get them outdoors, tape our mouths shut and let them exercise their bodies, entertain themselves and develop their risk assessment skills even further.

It tells me that children don't need to be patronised. We would be well advised to give them access to adult tools now and then- carefully chosen, perhaps, but the real thing- tape our mouths shut and let them explore.

It tells me that the world outdoors is full of children's toys. We would be well advised to tape our wallets shut, stop buying brightly coloured plastic cr*p and stuff we think our children might want, and let our children find their own playthings. Toys that are, truly, their own choice.

Children are more capable than we think. And if we allow them the room, if we bite our tongues and give them some respect along with the boundaries, they will constantly surprise us with their ability to entertain themselves.

Happiness, pleasure and the joy of being broke

2012-04-20T14:01:00.000+10:00

There's a wonderful lyric from Malcolm Williamson's opera version of Oscar Wilde's 'The Happy Prince' that has always made me thoughtful. The prince is indulged in all things material, and never allowed to feel sorrow. After his death, he becomes a statue looking out over the misery of poverty outside the walls of his palace; it touches his leaden heart with pity, and he sadly sings:

"My courtiers called me The Happy Prince,
And happy indeed I was- if pleasure be happiness."

I think pleasure and happiness are words that we need to define very carefully in our parenting. So often we do something on the pretext that it will make our children happy, yet in fact what we're doing is giving our children pleasure.

And when the ability to give our children pleasure at the drop of a hat is taken away- usually by a change of circumstances such as the loss of a job, a relationship break-up or an illness that affects our income- we worry that we will no longer be able to make our children happy.

Let me just reassure you on that point.

First I might just define 'pleasure' and 'happiness' for you, as I (and Oscar Wilde) understand the words.

'Pleasure' rhymes with 'leisure', and I think it tends to be closely related to that word. It's a concept of indulging ourselves in what pleases us. But it tends to need constant boosting, and it often has something of an unpleasant aftertaste.

We eat the whole block of chocolate, and feel a little sick; we spend all morning reading a book, and the washing up is still sitting in the sink when we go to make lunch. We go on holiday, come home and have to unpack and wash clothes.

We don't get pleasure by remembering the taste of the chocolate or the time reading. We want more. Another square, another chapter. It's fleeting, and it can leave us vaguely dissatisfied. We enjoy looking at the holiday snaps, but often it just makes us wish we were still there instead of back at work.

Happiness, on the other hand, is a different beast entirely. It can be as all-encompassing as a good relationship with our partner, or a memory that is so sweet that little things remind us of it and make us thrill with joy all over again.

Let me explain that second one. We have a totally beautiful bird where I live, the rainbow bee-eater, which comes in spring with a flash of colour and a beautiful, chirruping call. It's not the elusive and flamboyant bird that creates happiness for me every time I see it or hear it- it's the memory of my first spring living here, when I was finally freed of the terrible burden of a bad relationship and surrounded by the beauty of nature.

So think of that now in terms of your own lives, your own children. What makes them happy, and what merely gives them pleasure?

How many of us have had that wonderful- (tongue firmly in cheek here)- that WONDERFUL experience on Christmas Day after the child unwraps the last present? All that love and care you've put into choosing presents to make them happy, and when the last piece of wrapping is ripped off, they scream and want MORE.

That's pleasure. Not happiness. Poof- gone. Nasty aftertaste.

Yep, that happened with my son. Guilty as charged. I've thought about all this since then- I didn't read The Happy Prince till much later in my life. I mean, when my son was little, there were toy shop owners who rubbed their hands together and doubled their prices when they saw me walk down the street. (Kidding.) (I think.)

And then there's the time you sat on the beach with them building sandcastles half the day- the time you got down on the floor and actually played trains for half an hour- the time you made the effort to understand why they wanted something so desperately, and finally recognised that what they wanted and what you wanted were two different things, because they are not you.

Those are the moments that have made your children truly happy.

John Lennon had it right, too. Can't buy me love. Can't buy me time. Can't buy me understanding.

My memories of my own childhood Christmasses aren't of a bazillion presents followed by a tantrum, because my parents were pretty desperately broke a lot of the time. What sticks with me is not the bright, shiny plastic fantastic, but what happened after the few carefully chosen presents were opened. I remember the atmosphere.

If there was a game, we'd all sit down together and play it. I had that Mousetrap game for years- my son even played with it- and I'm still hooked on Scrabble. There was a lot of laughter. I remember the laughter.

Books? The afternoon would be spent with everyone slumped around the living room together, with their noses deep in what interested them. (The operative words there are 'everyone' and 'together'.) No pressure, no running around screaming because someone was trying to achieve the perfect Christmas lunch and something went wrong.

A doll? My mother would always have made clothes for it herself, and I'd investigate them with great interest because I knew she'd spend time later showing me how to do that. A doll was an ongoing promise of input.

A guitar? That was an expression of trust, because my parents absolutely could NOT afford that guitar. It wasn't just a wooden thing with strings that made noise. It was a symbol of belief in me, because I'd begged- begged- for that guitar, and even taught myself to play on someone else's instrument to show I was serious. A guitar, in a house where nothing but classical music was ever played? Sacrilege.

But I got it.

Now, that was happiness. A promise of time and loving attention, which I knew from experience would be kept. An expression of understanding that I was not them, an expression of belief in me, trust that I meant to persevere with playing that instrument and not just toss it aside when I got frustrated, trust that I knew what made me happy. That guitar got me through more adolescent crises than you could ever believe. It was a foolproof way to express my unruly, too-big feelings, and I often wonder if my parents ever realised just how brilliant an investment it was.

And so let's say that you've indulged your children in pretty much every shiny thing they've ever wanted (or not even known they've wanted), because you can. Because you love to see their faces light up with pleasure. Because you can't help going into toy shops and splurging, thinking "this will make him/her so happy!"

Let's say you're now in a situation where you simply can't do that any more. Is the sky going to fall, Henny Penny?

At first there's going to be fallout, sure. Brace yourself and prepare to be completely honest and authentic. Arm yourself with useful phrases.

"I understand you're disappointed."
"I hear that you really wanted (that toy / that dress / to go to that camp / whatever)."
"It's okay to feel sad about that."
"This isn't easy for you. It's hard. I see that."

Hang in there, hold your ground; don't go maxing out the credit card to prop up pleasure. This is going to be better than you could imagine.

And when the screaming subsides, start propping up happiness instead. You will have to replace getting out the wallet with pushing aside some commitments, with doing some deep thinking about who your children are and what they need for happiness, with spending your time instead of your money on your kids.

"Would you like to go to the park / beach instead? That doesn't cost any money."
"Let's go through your toys and see if there's anything interesting in the back of the cupboard."
"Do you want to play a game? You choose which one."
"I can't afford takeaway tonight. How about you tell me what to cook? Or do you want me to show you how to cook your favourite food, so you can make it whenever you want?"

Like I said, I had a few Christmasses from hell with my over-indulged, first-grandson-on-both-sides, wealthily-parented son. Then the parental relationship imploded, a business venture failed and suddenly the cash cow went dry. Oops.

I've been there. I survived the fallout. And now that I've got the perspective of time and space, I look back and recognise that being broke was one of the best things that happened to me as a parent. Truly. I couldn't hide behind purchases any more; all I had to give was myself, with complete honesty.

In the end, my son was comforting me when I couldn't afford stuff he wanted. I can still hear his voice saying "It's okay, mum, don't worry about it." And that makes me so happy. Me being broke actually made him a much nicer person.

We both would have missed out on so much if I'd stayed rich.

I Will Not Pin.

2012-04-16T10:21:00.000+10:00

Oh my. Everyone, but everyone, seems to have gone suddenly crazy for Pinterest.

Not me. I have decided that I Will Not Pin. And it's not just because I'm a jumper-off from bandwagons, though that's true. All my life, if everyone was wearing mulberry and taupe, I was in black and scarlet; if everyone was coming out of the movie theatre drooling about "Titanic" or "American Beauty", I was running the other way screaming "GARBAGE!".

(Don't start me. Please.)

So perhaps I was inclined not to pin from the start. But honestly, contrary nature aside, my rational brain can think of plenty of reasons not to pin.

(You're wondering what this has to do with childcare, aren't you? Bear with me. I always get there in the end.)

First and foremost is this: I have enough ways to sit in front of a screen already. Too many ways. (Go on then, count how many you have- I dare you.)

Each day, by the time I've dealt with my Facebook page, my Aunt Annie page, my Aunt Annie blog and four private groups, then copied various posts to Google+ and Twitter, plus made my move in the half dozen games of what I call 'Bogus Scrabble' that I always have going at once... well, half the morning's gone and the washing up's still in the sink.

That's just the active screen things, the ones that I can justify because they have a positive effect on my life- through creative or collaborative input, socialising and brainstorming with my friends and colleagues, or just exercising my brain to keep Alzheimers at bay.

But then I have to add the passive screen stuff- the mind-broadening, and the plain old necessary. About thirty blogs I follow and the daily paper I adore, which I scan through and then read selectively. Email to deal with, approaching weather to check, banking to do, maybe some brainless PhotoShop work to deal with- stuff I do on the side to earn a few bucks. (Darn this earning money thing. Why can't it drop from the sky?)

And it all happens on a screen.

(I haven't even mentioned that other screen, the one I watch the news and the football and the occasional drama on at night, often with my laptop still on my lap so I can chat to my friends in the ad breaks.)

I Will Not Pin. Clearly I don't need another straw on that particular camel's saddle. (NB: bareback riding is not my forte.)

And then there's the personal side of my life. I have a relationship, I have dependents. I do not need one more thing to eat my time and distract me from the man I love, who is already somewhat prickly about the time I spend staring at a screen and not really listening to what he's saying. I do not need one more thing to keep me sitting in a chair instead of horsing around with my beloved dogs, who are at that age where it's exercise or collapse under the layers of lard.

(Come to think of it, I'm at that age too.)

I Will Not Pin.

I mean, when is enough enough? Is copying and sorting other people's ideas into albums really going to make me better organised? (Do I want to be better organised? It's never been a problem before. Why start now? Half my creativity is the child of chaos.)

Do I need pinning in my life? What does it add? I have bookmarks to keep hold of something online that captures my attention and is worthy of revisiting. Do I really need to spend hours trawling through what's captured other people?

I Will Not Pin.

Am I protesting too much?

Guilty, guilty, guilty. Yes, of course I'm protesting too much, because of course the temptation is there to browse through the bright and shiny photos, pecking at other people's ideas like a magpie, carrying off whatever gleams, and telling myself that it's work-related- when really, it's more like watching MasterChef and telling yourself you're cooking. 99% of pinning is fantasy land, stuff you'll never look at again or use. (I mean, if the idea is arresting enough, you'll remember it and probably use it straight away.)

And of course, we all need a bit of fantasy. But I'm a realist. A picture may indeed say a thousand words, but they may not be the words I want you to hear. I'm talking behaviour, philosophy, problem-solving; I don't want to offer you a short cut that may end in a dead end of your own preconceptions. I want you to hear exactly what I'm saying. And I love using words carefully, using them to point you in a certain direction and then letting you create the pictures in your own head, as you apply my words to your own unique situation.

So I Will Not Pin.

It's a boundary I'm setting myself, because the temptation is there to just go on sitting here and start investigating what all the shouting's about, to let myself get hooked in to yet another online addiction. (Don't tell me it's not addictive. The evidence is in.)

And just like children, adults need to set boundaries for themselves. Being all grown up isn't an excuse for doing whatever the hell catches our eye. We are role models, and moderation can be modelled just like everything else.

I mean, exactly what am I teaching if I'm always in front of a screen? What are you teaching? Just for a moment, step AWAY from the screen and look at yourself through your child's eyes, your partner's eyes, your students' eyes.

I don't care if it's a case of being hopelessly addicted to Angry Birds, or doing the centre's paperwork all day with barely an appearance outside your office. It's not the justification for being attached to that screen that matters; it's the simple fact of our constant attachment.

We- you and I and all the other techno-addicts out there- we are teaching disengagement from real life.

We are teaching that answers come from a screen, not from interaction with the people in our life.

We are teaching that being in touch with nature is of secondary importance.

We are teaching that being present in and aware of the moment, the space around us, the people around us, are all of secondary importance.

We are teaching that boundaries around screens aren't something we take seriously.

So is that what you want to be teaching? If not, then maybe some adjustments are necessary, because otherwise you are lining up for a whole new burden, like overweight teenagers who simply don't respond when you speak to them. And I am lining up for a partner who no longer bothers even to try to talk to me. And fat, sick dogs. (And a fat, sick self.)

These things are more important than our blog stats and our Facebook stats and our multiple spurious methods of bolstering our self-esteem. They're more important than almost all the stuff we do sitting at a screen.

And so this boundary I've set is only the first step in cutting back. I'll still be here, don't you worry; but I'm trying to set some limits on how long I sit here. And I'm making a point of talking to the real people around me about what I'm doing while I'm here, instead of living in a bubble and being irritated when they try to pop it.

Are you?

Don't get me wrong. Pinterest may be perfect for you; my boundaries are not your boundaries. It's all about context.

But do you actually have some boundaries around those screens?

Sibling bullies

2012-04-12T12:28:00.001+10:00

Parenting is a tightrope to walk. I know that. It's so hard not to fall off one side or the other of that thinnest of thin lines- into over-regulation, or into permissiveness- even when you're trying your hardest.

But sometimes I see the chaos caused by well-meaning parents who misinterpret where the line is, and my heart bleeds for the kids, and I have to say something. LOUDLY. Today I'm saying something, LOUDLY, because yet again I've seen a child in pain when parents thought they were doing the right thing.

See, there's lots been said about how we shouldn't intervene too much between siblings. Let them sort it out. Don't force the relationship. And I agree with that, within reason.

But let me show you what can happen when that approach gets taken too far. It's not pretty.

Quite a few times now, I've come across children under five who've had to be sent home from group care (sent home? Under five? Really? --yes, really!) because they were beating up other kids.

Beating them up, not just once or twice in a week.

Relentlessly. Daily.

Beating them up- not just annoyingly, so the other kids whined to us.

I'm talking blood. I'm talking stitches.

Nothing I, or any of my colleagues, has been able to do or say has made a difference to the tendency to violence in these children. We've sometimes made a difference to the frequency of the violence. But we've never actually stemmed the anger in these children's hearts.

And do you know what? When we've finally got to the bottom of it, the story nearly every time has been the same. Sometimes we hear it from the child. Sometimes we hear it from a friend of the family, or on the community grape vine. Sometimes, astonishingly, we even hear it from the parents.

But eventually we find out that this child is bullying violently because this child is violently bullied. Not just now and then, but every day of his life. No parole before and after school, no parole on weekends- not even for under-fives.

You see, a bully isn't necessarily a stranger- some other child who calls a child cruel names, plays tricks on him, threatens him with violence and demands his lunch money or mobile phone. A bully isn't even necessarily a drunken, violent parent.

In nearly all these cases I'm thinking of, there was an in-house bully teaching this child to relate to other people by hurting them- and that bully was an older, stronger sibling. These poor children spent their home lives constantly on high alert, waiting to be set upon by (usually) an older brother. Sometimes a few older siblings would team up on the smaller, weaker child; sometimes the bully was an older sister.

Invariably, the parents didn't see this as a problem, and thought it was okay to let the kids sort it out themselves. After all, isn't that what the very best advice says?

And so, having been taught how to bully through physical violence at home and bearing a heart full of rage at the injustice of it, these children have come to a different environment and have related to other children in the only way they know- by beating the bones out of them, often for no apparent reason.

I mean, they're bottom of the heap at home. They're damned if they're going to be bottom of the heap at school too.

And because there's often no apparent reason for the violence, these children get labelled- by other parents, by other kids, even by carers. Bully. Troublemaker. Difficult. Violent.

That makes me mad. I don't like labels.

Look, I'm sure 99% of you know this already, but I'm going to spell it out for the 1%.

It is NOT okay to let one child constantly beat up another child to 'sort it out'. That's bullying, whether or not the children are siblings. You have to intervene.

Look at your fighting children, and imagine yourself in the place of the smaller child. How would you feel? Is this a fair fight? What is this child learning?

Would you like to be the one having your personal space constantly violated? Would you like to be on the receiving end of this? What would it be called if another adult did this to you?

Perhaps this is how you were treated as a child. You've normalised it inside your head. It's still not okay- sorry. It's still bullying. And perhaps you might need some help to deal with your own pain.

Perhaps your culture normalises kids sorting things out for themselves. That's fine if your culture is otherwise intact, and also role-models strong family bonds, respect and behavioural boundaries. But sadly, this isn't always the case.

For example, many of our indigenous mobs do expect children to work out their differences without intervention, which is a traditional perspective and worthy of our respect and understanding- and that parenting model works wonderfully in a situation where kinship still reigns, where the elders of that mob are present on a day-to-day basis, where these leader figures still have the children's respect. But in situations where the normal structure of the community has been damaged, violence can grow unchecked between children. A clear and honest eye is needed; parents need to consider the big picture.

Once you see the need to call a halt to bullying and to defend the child who's being targeted, you also need to look to the causes of this dynamic. Imagine yourself now in the place of the larger or more dominant child.

What is that child saying with his or her fists? Why?

Imagine the world through this child's eyes too. What's missing, that he or she needs to express themselves like this? Is it your time? Is it your attention? Have you perhaps appeared to favour one child over the other, for whatever reason? (And the reasons can be completely understandable- a child who's ill, a child with special needs, family traumas, personal depression- but often there's fallout that expresses through children's relationships.)

Is this a learned behaviour in the dominant child too? (It almost always is.) Who has taught this child to speak with violence, and how can you change that?

These are confronting questions. Perhaps this child is watching you being bullied by your partner, and mimicking that way of relating. Perhaps there's a negative dynamic at this child's school or within a social circle that needs further investigation.

Perhaps you will need professional help you to find out not just what the answers are, but what the right questions are to ask your child and yourself.

Nobody's family is perfect. I've talked about that before. You're not a failure if you admit there's a problem in the dynamics of your family. On the contrary- it's dealing with problems honestly that makes you a success.

So be a success. Please.

The Richest Crocodile: Earth Day Blog Hop

2012-04-08T05:00:00.001+10:00

The Richest
Crocodile
in the World
by Daniel Postgate

Published by HarperCollins, 2003
ISBN-T3: 978-0-00-780985-1

Earth Day Theme: Water and Sun

I have to admit that I love this book. I found it going cheap in the supermarket one day as though it was remaindered, but it grabbed me at once and the kids adored it too. It ticks so many boxes in the preschool room!

I mean, just look at that crocodile- did I mention that 'crocodile' is a magic word? I could read them Pride and Prejudice and they'd listen, if only D'Arcy were a crocodile.

And look at all those boys' toys that the rich crocodile has to play with! Helicopters, cars, bikes... oh yes, they're listening alright, those sometimes-twitchy and hard-to-settle boys.

If you don't know the story, here's a brief run-down:

The rich crocodile looks out across the plains and sees the other animals having fun horsing around in the waterhole.

He tries having that sort of fun by himself, but he's missing one important ingredient- FRIENDS!

So off he goes with his butler, the giraffe, to join in.

But when he gets there, the waterhole has dried up and the animals are all gone...

...and this, my friends, is where you can start to engage preschoolers with Earth Day.

Of course, you'll finish the book before you do the activities- and you'll discover that it has a great message about the importance of friends, too. But when you finish, turn back to that page with the crocodile and giraffe looking into the empty waterhole.

My favourite approach is to ask leading questions.

Where did the water go? is the first one, and what happens next is up to your kids! There are all sorts of activities that can lead on from this concept of 'where did the water go' and the many possible responses.

Maybe they'll theorise that the animals drank it.

Activity: There's an ideal opening for discussion of where the water goes when we drink it (cue giggling), and why we need water to drink. An understanding of the importance of water to human life is an essential facet of Earth Day.

A baby doll that drinks and wets is a good starting prop for this discussion. The water goes in one end and comes out the other- but what happens inside? What does it do?

This is a perfect lead-in to looking at some anatomy books and investigating what our internal organs do, plus the role of water in moving things around and out of our body. 'Child Art Retrospective' has a whole series of posts showing how an investigation of anatomy led to a layered art project, where over a period of weeks the children first painted their organs, then over the top their bones, then when that was dry added muscles and blood vessels... have a look; you might want to try this as a long-term project.

You can also talk about times that children have hurt themselves and drawn blood- is blood the same as water? Do you think blood has water in it? Where does the water come from in your blood? What would happen to your blood if you stopped drinking water? What does blood DO? And so on. Don't forget to listen to the answers when you ask these questions, and respond to what they say without laughing at anyone- it's all about letting them hypothesise, and gently inserting a little intentional teaching where you can.

If you can get hold of a length of clear plastic tubing and tape it to the mouth of a squeezable clear plastic container (some kids' ice blocks come in these- wash one out and away you go), you can experiment with filling the container with red-coloured water and 'pumping' it like a heart so the water goes down the tube. (This is definitely an activity for the water trough outside!) Have a play around with whatever recycled resources you have at hand to make your little 'heart' and 'arteries'- it's worth the effort.

Oh, and if you have your wits about you next time someone skins a knee, you can seize the teaching moment and talk about how blood is wet, how it runs and drips and oozes... so much vocabulary to use around this intriguing subject.

Children are usually fascinated by blood and after talking about this, you shouldn't be surprised if there's a lot of red paint used in art projects. :)

Here's another question you can ask them, leading from a 'they drank it' response- is it only animals that need water to drink?

Activity: 'Growing a Jeweled Rose' has some beautiful photos of their science experiment with white flowers placed in coloured water. The flowers continue to 'drink' the water and the colour will be transferred to the flowers. Magic!

Follow-ups: Set up three seedlings in pots on the windowsill or outside where they'll get light, but no water except what you give them. Anything that grows okay indoors in your climate will do.

Label your plants with pictures and words to show what you're going to do with each one. Each day you'll give one plant no water (a picture of a watering can with a cross through it), one some water- enough to keep the soil damp (normal watering can with a sprinkle coming out), and one lots of water, ie flood it (watering can gushing and splashing)- and see what happens over a week.

Discuss the results with the children. What would happen if the Earth had no water left? What would happen if the whole world was covered in water? Is it important to make sure plants have the right amount of water?

Look at some non-fiction picture books of different types of landscapes- include deserts and rainforests. Make collages of different landscapes, using natural materials including sand and leaves. (Silver foil can be good for 'water', especially with blue or grey cellophane added on top.) This can be a great group activity.

Maybe your kids will theorise straight away that the water dried up because of the hot sun. If not, do a bit of intentional teaching! Talk about sunburn. Talk about peeling noses, where your skin has had all the water taken out and cracks and curls like the mud at the bottom of the crocodile's waterhole. And then it's time for another experiment.

Activity: Let the children choose some items that they think have water in them, and try 'drying them up' on a tray in the sun. You will need to plan ahead- read the book early in the day, and ask the kids to watch out for things to add to the drying tray while playing and at meal times. You might end up with a tray containing a wooden block, a grape, a small plastic toy, a drinking straw, a piece of watermelon, a slice of carrot, an ice cube in a cup, some flowers or leaves... the possibilities are endless, but I would also include a mud pie. Take a photo of your tray.

Now find a nice hot spot where the items won't be tampered with, and observe the tray with the kids each day, taking another photo. You should end up with a series of photos which show how some things dehydrate in the heat of the sun. See if you can keep your experiment going for long enough to make the mud pie crack like the bottom of the animals' waterhole in the book!

If you just don't have enough heat in the day to do this, put the tray in a very slow oven- but make sure you ditch the plastic items or you may have a mess!

Follow-up: How did the water get back in the waterhole at the end of the book? (Note that the book doesn't say- so this is a perfect opportunity for speculation!) Talk about clouds and rain. Look at the sky each day and discuss the clouds you can see. Try to identify which ones have rain in them.

Well, that should keep you all busy for a week, don't you think? :D But just in case you need more... here are heaps of other ideas from fabulous EC bloggers!

Teach Preschool : Child Central Station : Living Montessori Now : Aunt Annie's Childcare : The SEEDS Network : Flights of Whimsy : Pre-K Pages : Kreative Resources : I'm a teacher, get me OUTSIDE here! : Share & Remember : Music Sparks : little illuminations : Greening Sam and Avery : Putti Prapancha : Early Play : 52 Days to Explore : Little Running Teacher : Look at My Happy Rainbow : Rainbows within Reach

Driving through stop signs, and more on obedience

2012-04-01T21:09:00.000+10:00

The dialogue on obedience still hasn't stopped! It's flying round and round the blogosphere in ever-diminishing circles, and nobody is changing anybody's mind. Children are too disobedient these days, says one; children are too regimented, says another. They're out of control. Or, They're expressing real needs.

And never the twain shall meet.

Somehow, in the midst of reading all this, I had cause to remember the day some nine years ago when my learner-driver son drove straight through a stop sign, while I rode shotgun with my mouth hanging open in shock. It wasn't just any stop sign, mind you; it was one of the most notoriously dangerous intersections on the whole Central Coast. People got killed there with monotonous regularity.

Children are out of control...

Oh, he heard about it from me, don't you worry. I screamed at him to pull over, and then I blew a gasket. As you do, when your life's just flashed before your eyes. I mean, it's not like he didn't know that stop sign was there. He just thought he had the situation under control; he made a judgment call.

And I guess that's why the incident came to mind this morning when I was reading, yet again, about obedience. I think that's the sort of thing that some parents fear, when they choose a parenting path that requires complete obedience from their child. They want to make sure their child doesn't drive through the metaphorical stop signs of life. They fear that they'll raise a sub-standard citizen, unless they force their child to comply with every demand. And they blame every tableau they see of strangers' children 'misbehaving' in public on the parents' failure to cultivate unquestioning obedience.

If only they could time-travel a little, and stand where I stand for a moment- with a grown child, looking back.

Would my son have stopped 'obediently' at that stop sign if I'd parented him differently?

You know already, if you've been following my previous writings about obedience, that I wasn't one to allow World War III to start just because he didn't put his glass in the dishwasher or pick up his toys. I wasn't one to escalate situations into physical violence when he got stubborn (which was extremely often); I wasn't standing there with a belt at the ready in case he didn't eat his vegetables or didn't come home on time.

I was one to reason with him- within reason; I was one to shrug my shoulders when he didn't do his homework, to end up laughing with him when something trivial got out of proportion and he made a wisecrack worthy of a stand-up comedian with the sole intention of de-escalating the situation. (Fair enough. Life is short. Laugh often. At times he was wise beyond his years.)

No, the worst I did was to smack him ineffectually, maybe two or three times in his whole life, and send him to his room till he could be civil when his tongue got completely out of order. (Ironic, and probably unfair, considering that I was as out of control as he was; he was a master button-presser, and I was possessed of a very long wick with a bomb at the end. Fortunately he doesn't seem to have held those few tepid whacks against me, any more than I've demanded retribution for the unwise and immature remarks that prompted them.)

I've never wished I'd smacked him more, or harder. Never.

I mean, maybe it's true- maybe he would have stopped at that stop sign if I'd been tougher on him, if I'd insisted on more rules, more obedience.

But to force him to do what I said- well, how would I have done that? And would it have been worth it?

I think this is the essence of the balancing act. There are two ways to get a child to comply with something they don't want to do. They can comply because they respect you and understand that you've got their best interests at heart, because they love you and want make life easier for you; or they can comply because they fear you, because they're scared not to please you.

So let's tease that one out a little. Would it have been worth having my child feeling scared of me, just to ensure that he 'learned' unquestioning obedience and obeyed things like traffic signs without thought?

For starters, if you're one of those parents who's scored a stubborn, intelligent child, good luck forcing him to do anything. Obedience will mean literally beating the spirit out of him, and I'm not giving you any guarantees that it'll work even then.

You won't be able to out-reason him, you won't be able to bribe him, you won't be able to 'lay down the law' by withdrawing his privileges. He'll look you in the eye with ever-diminishing respect and stare you down. He'll lie happily on his bed with not a toy left in his room and enjoy the quirks of his own imagination, or read a book. He won't care about anything as much as he cares about not being forced to do something he can't see the point of, or hasn't been given any agency in. He is his own person and he knows it. He is a person who already knows himself to be more than just an extension of you.

Heaven help you if you don't know that too.

This is the child I had. Do you dare say I should have beaten him till he did what I said, for fear of his life? Because that's what it would have taken.

And if it's not right to do that to this child, it's not right to do that to any child. My son taught me to parent with respect, because he wouldn't accept anything else.

Does that make you cringe? Do you think the balance of power is wrong in that equation? Well, just hold on one sweet minute. Parenting isn't about power.

Bullying is about power. Politics is about power. Money is about power. Rape is about power. But parenting? Parenting is about respect.

And what if I had beaten obedience into him? It hardly bears thinking about. I shudder to think of all the incredible moments of trust and love I would have done myself out of.

Like the moment when he rang me, admitting he'd made a serious mistake with alcohol and had put himself in terrible danger. And just wanted to talk to me about it.

Or the moment when he called to say he wanted to get engaged at the tender age of 19, then came hundreds of miles to see me and talk it over and reassure me that he really had thought things through.

Or what about the moment he asked me to help make it possible for them to get married in the bush, the bush I loved so much and where I'd brought him to live at the age of seven? Amazingly, this techno-savvy child of the computer age wanted to get married amidst the natural beauty of the big backyard I'd shared with him. I'd never realised it even mattered to him.

And so on. If I'd beaten the cr*p out of him from an early age, if I'd withheld my love to make him behave the way I wanted, would he have shared with me as an adult the truth about his life, as often and as frankly as he has? Would I have had the opportunity to speak proudly about the choices he'd made, to laugh about his quirks with him- not at him- amongst his large body of friends at his wedding reception?

Would we have come out the other side of our greatest moments of discord, forgiving each other's mistakes and still sending each other bold-typed hugs at the end of every Gmail chat? Would we have sat 800km apart tapping at our computers late into the night, chatting first about his honours thesis and then, as the years went by, about the PhD thesis that's taken him years of sustained, focussed work to complete- all while he struggled with the finances, teaching to support his family, never asking me for a cent, and in his spare time taking a leadership role in his chosen recreation?

(Does this person sound like a sub-standard citizen?)

Oh sure, he's not perfect. And sometimes he makes mistakes, overestimates his control of events. When you let people think for themselves, when you cut the apron strings and let them work things out for themselves, let them learn through the natural consequences of their actions, you can't expect perfection- no more than you can expect independence or originality when you tie a child to your side, beat them into shape and don't allow them to breathe. A child who's not been broken to obedience is far more likely to do the incredible- and, from time to time, the outrageous.

They write a groundbreaking academic paper, they teach a child from a non-Anglo culture so well he tops the year in English. They marry the right woman, they give of their time and resources freely. Occasionally, they drive through a stop sign and give their mother a dozen more grey hairs.

Hopefully, they live to realise that the last one was a bad idea.

If I'd forced my son to be obedient, perhaps I would still be proud of what he'd achieved- though I doubt he would have achieved the same things, and god knows I would be a different person completely after having done that. Perhaps I would have pushed him into a career he hated, because he would have forgotten- or never learned- how to say 'no' to me. I mean, heavens, I don't really have a clue what he does, it's not my field; but that doesn't matter. What matters is that he'll spend a third of his waking hours doing something that he both loves and does well.

That sort of pride, the virtuous pride that comes of having a child who does what he's told and goes where you tell him to go, isn't really the point. The purpose of life isn't to be proud of your children's behaviour and achievements- no, it's not. That's just a side benefit, not the main game.

The purpose of life, in terms of parenting, is to enable your children to find their gifts and use them, so that they blossom into the best human being they can be. If you succeed in that, then it really doesn't matter what your child ends up doing.

And here he is, this disobedient son of mine, doing what he loves and doing it spectacularly well. The boy who wouldn't do his homework has had his nose to the grindstone for four years finishing this darn thesis, of his own free will. Sometimes when you stop pushing, things find their own momentum.

And beyond achievement, beyond pride, at the end of our time as a parent- when the nest is empty- all we have left of our child is our relationship with him. That's where the folly of insisting on obedience starts to wreak its revenge.

If I'd beaten my child into submission, would he ever have shared his precious moments and private thoughts with me as an adult? Would he have told me, as an adult, those most precious words of acknowledgement, that he thought I'd been a good mother- the best, even?

I doubt he'd be speaking to me at all.

All those parents who do insist on obedience at any cost- I'm sad for their children, but I'm also sad for them. Because one day they'll find that it's not enough to be proud of our children's behaviour.

Surely, we also want our children to look back and be proud of our behaviour.

My perfect playground

2012-03-29T12:25:00.000+10:00

There's such a lot of talking going on about outdoor play that I've started to think about the huge variety of outdoor play areas I've seen. As a casual, I visit so many play spaces that I've got ample opportunity to compare their effectiveness- so here's a description of my perfect playground, compiled through my experience of watching real children play.

The best playgrounds I've seen in my wanderings from centre to centre as a casual have had two things in common:

plenty of open space for safe running, and
teachers who never say 'Slow down, you might hurt yourself / bump into something'.

What a boon open space is. You can play chasings- a marvellously social game, where everyone who wants to play can join in without the usual stresses of joining others' games. Do you remember my story about Bodie Finch? The 'real' Bodie, on whom I based the story, was first welcomed into play (despite his social difficulties caused by Aspergers) in a game of chasings.

And there's more. You can play football without the constant worry about the ball going over the fence. You can have circle time outdoors without having to move a heap of equipment to fit everyone in. Skipping rope, 'What's the Time Mr Wolf', target games, pool-noodle play- the possibilities are endless; even more importantly, open space is a stage for open-ended activities designed by the kids.

There's no way you'd get me filling up the whole outdoor space with fixed play equipment. No way. My ideal playground has empty space, and no, I will not fill it up with toys so "visiting parents think it looks like the kids have got lots to do". (Yes, I'm quoting a former colleague.) I might arrange some piles of open-ended play props in close proximity- hoops, pebbles, balls, pine cones, stilts, fronds of real leaves, capes... but no, I won't fill it to the gills with rocking horses and bikes and prams and cars and seesaws and dolls and modular climbing equipment.

Kids need space. Don't clutter it up. My perfect playground has

a few attractively arranged resources, and
a mixture of natural and 'formed' toys.

The saddest EC playground I ever saw was so small that the different classes had to take turns to use it. It was surfaced with astroturf- how I HATE astroturf, horrible, scratchy, unnatural, hard-to-clean stuff that it is!!- and rubber matting that heated up to the level where it burnt the kids' feet in summer, with landscaped bark chips and concreted pebbles and rocks. There was not a single blade of grass in it. It was very stylish, very sensory (read 'too much'), and absolutely lethal for running. The four- and five-year-old boys nearly went crazy in that yard, because they were always being told to stop running.

My perfect playground has

at least 75% real grass, and
absolutely NO astroturf, and
at least one climbing tree plus shade trees, and
a real garden for digging, planting, smelling, feeling.

I don't care if there are creepy crawlies. Children generally love creepy crawlies, and the few who are actually scared of them need gentle, educational exposure, not cotton-wool protection. Ants? Bees? For heavens' sake. Clover can be eradicated if it's attracting swarms of bees. Ants are ants; get over it. And they also can be moved on if a child's allergic to the occasional bites.

And that climbing tree? How I remember the battle of wills I had with the staff of one centre! The children were determined to climb this tree, and the staff were determined to forbid it- so the kids kept doing it the moment nobody was looking. And I kept trying to talk to the kids about using a bit of common sense, making their own rules for climbing the tree, testing the strength of the branches, putting some soft fall mats up against the edge of the sandpit where they could have knocked their brains out if they fell...

...they will do it if it's there, whether or not we forbid it. Our job is not to forbid risk, but to make it possible for the kids to learn to judge and moderate risk.

(Bottom line: If it's lethal, it shouldn't be in your playground. If it's risky, you need to adapt your supervision and teaching.)

The child-friendly garden is a must. Oh, the joy of digging, of doing real work! Of finding a worm! Of picking a strawberry or pulling up a carrot! Maybe it needs a growing area and a digging area... shall we ask the children what they think?

My perfect playground has

a high slide- as high as is permitted by the regulations.

It's built into the side of a grassy mound of earth. That little hill can be climbed, rolled down and used as a fort, as well as providing 270-degree access for the slide. Kids can walk up that slide if they want, without the staff having kittens that they'll slip and fall over the side. I've only ever seen this set-up once, but it made a huge impression on me. It was brilliant.

My perfect playground has

a massive sandpit.

It's big enough to play long-jumps. It's big enough for everyone to be in at once. It's big enough to sit in for circle time so we can do science experiments with the sand. Oh, and it's completely shaded, so the kids can play in there for hours in summer without getting burnt.

It's nowhere near anything that will mess the sand up all the time- like bark chips- and it has a proper cover to keep out the neighbourhood cats. (You'd be amazed how many completely inadequate sandpit covers I've seen.) My one rule would be, if you want to mix things with the sand, take the sand OUT, not the other stuff IN. (Unless it's clean water; clean water + clean sand = total delight.) Kids love clean sand. I've noticed how they flock to a clean sandpit, and scorn a filthy one.

Is there another corner of the yard? Yes? Marvellous- in that corner we have

a non-specific, roofed play platform that can have modular climbing frames added on to it in different conformations, and that can have semi-transparent curtains added as 'walls'. It's built on soft fall.

It's a stage. It's a cubby house. It's a boat. It's a bus. It's a train. It's a pirate ship. It's whatever the kids want to make it, through their imaginary play. I spent quite a lot of time in a yard that had one of these, and the kids never got bored with it. Again, it's open-ended, and that's what makes the difference. The more specific a toy is, the more you cramp the kids' style.

They don't want detail. They want flexibility. See?

There are two last things that I need in my shed to make this yard perfect. We need

gym mats, and
old sheets with some means to hang them up- ropes, clips, divider frames, whatever.

Just the thin gym mats, so the kids can put them out themselves. They can decide where they need them to moderate risks- maybe under that tree? The can use them for gymnastics. They can become the walls of a cubby.

And the sheets? More cubbies, more props for imaginary play. Children love to create their own little space, their own little world, and cubbies are such a great way to do that- as well as giving those quieter kids some privacy.

Of course, when I get to Child Heaven there will be a running creek too, and enough staff to make it safe, but (sigh) that's the realm of fantasy. I'll just have to get the water trough out every single day instead... and the little buckets and spoons... the non-specific crates and the real cooking containers for the mud pies...

...I can dream, can't I?

Thoughts on obedience and the morning rush hour

2012-03-24T09:09:00.000+10:00

I have never liked rushing. I'm one of those people who tends to be early for things rather than late, who tends to prepare everything well in advance so the last minute panic is avoided. I'm the one who packs my lunch the night before, or portions up the leftovers so I've got a week's lunches in the freezer. Anything to dodge that feeling of being too rushed to think straight. Any time I get lazy and decide to just leave things to the last minute, I regret it sorely.

So I guess that's why I find it relatively easy these days to slow down for children (and I'm not talking about school pedestrian crossings, either- I'm talking about day-to-day living). I don't let myself feel rushed; I like watching kids, and the way they approach things.

It wasn't so easy when I actually HAD a child of my own and a full time job, mind you, when I lived in a world of deadlines and had a child who liked to experiment with the power of dragging the chain. My son seemed to take delight in making me late by simply refusing to get ready. I have a hideous memory of getting so furious one morning that I actually put him in the car in his pyjamas; another day I drove a hundred metres down the road without him. (I might add that nothing I did back then improved his behaviour in the morning. All I did was entertain my son with the results of his expert button-pushing, or occasionally make him cry without making him comply in the least.)

Aunt Annie is no saint, believe me. Aunt Annie used to lose the plot in the morning, just like the rest of you.

So I won't pretend that slowing down for kids in the morning will be easy for any of you who are in that world right now. But it really is worth the effort to stop expecting instant anything from kids, if you can possibly manage it.

Take Grant, for example.

Grant was one very tricky four-year-old. He had 'issues' at home, such as a much-loved and much-admired father being detained at Her Majesty's pleasure. He was definitely a firecracker kid, whose first resort in times of stress was fisticuffs. Obedience was definitely not his middle name- in fact that word didn't seem to be in his vocabulary.

Staff at his daycare facility found him, um, 'trying'.

One day he decided that emptying a whole tin of tiny beads and buttons out in the middle of the playroom floor, right in the area of most foot traffic, was an important scientific experiment. Who knows what he was thinking? Perhaps he was looking at the trajectory of small round items when dropped from a height and allowed to bounce randomly. Perhaps he just liked the noise it made. Perhaps he just felt the need to press our buttons to see what happened.

Naturally, what happened was that a couple of members of staff went ballistic and started ordering him to pick them up. I kept out of it, because I just happened to be writing an observation on Grant at that very moment- and observers should never skew their observations by intervening.

What I observed was that Grant completely ignored everything that was said to him about those beads. Or so it seemed. There was not a single moment of eye contact between him and the teachers, and he walked purposefully over to the car track that was set up in another part of the room and started destroying it.

Or so it seemed.

He wasn't actually damaging anything but the layout, mind you. Certainly he was lifting sections of track high in the air and waving them around so they fell chaotically on the floor, which led to another burst of commands from on high- which he similarly ignored.

Irritated, the other staff turned back to supervising the other children's activities. I guess they figured I was right on the spot and could deal with Grant and his refusal to conform.

I kept watching and taking notes. If I hadn't been so interested in my observation, I may well have intervened to try to lower the temperature in the room and make eye contact with Grant; we'd already had a couple of positive interactions that day, including one where I had to physically restrain him from beating the cr#p out of a peer for no apparent reason. (I used my usual technique for handling violent four-year-olds. It worked.)

Anyway, I'm glad I just watched, because it turned out that Grant was about to do something completely unexpected- and I was the only one who'd slowed down enough to keep watching what he did, thanks to my task of observation.

He assembled a toy semi-trailer, with great sense of purpose and concentration.

He drove the semi through the shattered car track, which I suddenly realised had been transformed into a mountainous 'landscape', improvising appropriate sound effects as he went.

He loaded the semi with a couple of blocks, again with great intent so that they fitted on the truck despite being apparently far too big. Between the blocks, he loaded the jar which had had the beads in it.

Very carefully, so that nothing overbalanced, he drove the semi over to the spilled beads and with the help of a peer (despite his frequent random violence, Grant still has friends, which tells me something about him) picked up every bead till the jar was filled again. Back went the lid. Off went the semi, delivering the beads to the shelf where they belonged.

Um, hello, everyone- Grant just did what he'd been asked to do. Did anyone notice?

He didn't do it at once. He didn't do it the way he was expected to do it. But, in his own time and in his own way, he did what he was told.

So what did my observation conclude?

Grant needs us to slow down if we want him to be obedient. He needs a bit of latitude to do things in his own time, in his own way. He needs less impatient, raised voices and more options. He needs to be allowed to take ownership of his obedience- this is the 'sense of agency' that's talked about in our curriculum and which, in practice, is so often overlooked because we're in a hurry. My observation follow-up instructed staff to stop jumping to conclusions about Grant's disobedience and give him more time and agency. (I worded it more diplomatically than that, of course, but that's what I meant.)

I wish I could turn back the clock now, to the days when my son refused to get dressed for school in the morning and I became more and more impatient and enraged. What I'd do these days is get up half an hour earlier instead of blaming the rush on a child, and hand back a bit of agency to my son instead of expecting him to conform to my agenda. I realise that my morning routine back then contained absolutely nothing that was about him.

A child is not a chattel. Nor a robot which conveniently converts to a human being when we have time to pay attention to it. A child requires us to make adjustments to what's easy and convenient for us. We know that- why do we forget it in the morning rush?

A child's performance is not improved by fear. But Grant's performance suggests to me that a child's performance is improved by giving him time and agency.

Please do better with your child in the morning than I did.

Aunt Annie's on the warpath

2012-03-19T17:45:00.000+10:00

Did you see the movie 'Erin Brokovich'? (If not, why not? It's awesome, and it's a true story.) That movie is very much on my mind today.

I think the scene that is most imprinted on my brain is the one where Erin sits in a stranger's living room telling a mother exactly what is making everyone in the area sick, from the children with bleeding ears and noses to the parents and children with cancers. It's lethal pollution in the water, courtesy of the local chemical plant.

And that mother is frozen in horror as she puts two and two together. You hear her children laughing, and see them cavorting in the family swimming pool through the window behind her. And she suddenly comes to her senses and rushes out, screaming "Get out of the water."

And your blood runs cold, as hers did.

Aunt Annie really doesn't like getting political. This is a childcare page. But sometimes the importance of advocating for children overcomes my desire to be Switzerland and not offend anyone's political leanings.

This is one of those times, because our children's health is being compromised right now, right around the globe. We have Erin Brokovich situations springing up wherever coal seam gas (CSG) mining has been allowed to happen- we've seen it in the USA, we've seen it in Queensland here in Australia, and it's heading into my local area now. Other countries are in similar positions- Canada, New Zealand- anywhere where there are CSG resources and people willing to ruin the environment for a quick buck.

What's happened in Queensland has been a salutary lesson about what happens when people take quick bucks without considering the consequences. In Queensland, around Tara and Chinchilla where the mining has been established for some time, there are children who are suddenly getting headaches, getting unexplained bleeding from their noses and ears, suddenly crying as they take their baths and coming out red all over where their skin has been burnt by the chemicals leaching into their water supply. There are agricultural properties destroyed by the infrastructure, noise and pollution of mining, with the water sucked out of the water table; they are unliveable, unsaleable and certainly no longer worthy of leaving to the children. There are water taps which billow gas when you turn them on; yes, some people can now light the tap in their kitchen sink. Hardly child-friendly.

This is real, this is happening, this is not a movie.

And children don't have a voice in politics, so I'm going to do some yelling for them. Tomorrow I'm going to see my local political representative Chris Gulaptis, reputedly a supporter of mining at all costs, to ask him how he can possibly justify his position and his government's position on CSG mining- a position that compromises the health, safety and sustainable future of our children.

I'll be asking him why he thinks it's okay to breach the articles of the UNICEF Convention on the Rights of the Child, which is a legally binding, non-negotiable set of standards and obligations. Article 24, for example, recognises the child's right to health. Article 36 recognises the child's right to protection from exploitation prejudicial to any aspect of the child's welfare.

I'll be asking him why, as an Early Childhood educator, I'm expected by the government to teach respect for the environment (EYLF Outcome 2), while the government who set that outcome in place permits the modelling of complete lack of respect for the environment.

I'll be asking him how it's okay to create stress levels for families affected by local CSG mines which result in families walking off their uninhabitable and unsaleable properties with nothing to show for their work and investment, and nothing to leave to their children. I'll be asking him if it's okay with him that the mining activities are leaving behind them a trail of depressive illnesses severe enough to lead to parental suicides.

I'll be asking him how it is okay to strip a country of its non-renewable energy resources and sell them offshore, without developing renewable energy resources for the use of our children in the future.

I'll be asking what our future's children are going to eat and drink, once agricultural land has been razed for mining and the water supply compromised.

Am I angry? Too right I am. Children are powerless, and our politicians don't give a damn about their future.

So what can you do, as parents, as educators, as advocates for children?

Living on rural land? Don't allow CSG miners onto your property, regardless of how much money they offer you and how much you think you need it. Don't sign access agreements. To do so will compromise your children's health, not to mention their (and your) future assets. It will also compromise the health of your neighbour's children. How will you sleep at night then?

Spread the word, especially to rural families you may know. No matter how much they need the quick-fix money offered by CSG con men, it won't buy back their children's health. It won't compensate for the loss of their land value and peace. (Have you heard the noise of a CSG well? It's abominable.)

Living in the city? Join a pressure group like GetUp and sign those petitions. They make it easy for you to add your voice, regardless of how busy you already are. Politicians understand votes. It's really the only thing they understand. They need to know we actually give a toss about this.

It won't matter a damn how well you raise your children if there's no clean water, and nothing to eat. You may not be personally affected- yet. But you can raise your voice for other people's children, as I am doing.

The internet is bigger than your backyard

2012-03-16T15:12:00.001+10:00

A kind and genuine colleague of mine had a terribly upsetting experience the other day. Some cowardly troublemaker accused him- anonymously, via the internet- of being a pervert, presumably because he had the hide to be a man working in early childhood.

Now, this post isn't about the pros and cons of men working in EC. (My view, for anyone who's interested, is that our children would benefit greatly from seeing more committed men in nurturing EC roles, and anyone who makes a knee-jerk judgment based on an EC worker's gender needs a cold shower and a quick soapy mouthwash.) No, this post is about what happened next, and how we are insulated from seeing the diversity of the real world by our little cyberspace cocoon.

So, what did happen next?

Needless to say, our online EC community was horrified by the slur on our friend's character, and started brainstorming solutions to rid our colleague of this nasty little troll. And a few well-meaning people, righteously enraged on his behalf, suggested he should call the police.

At this point I raised my hand to say "Whoa, horsie"- even though I was also infuriated by the treatment of my friend. And even though I knew that the people who suggested it really, really wanted to help and meant well.

But people, the internet is bigger than your backyard. We have to be really careful about giving advice, making suggestions, making judgment calls when we're in that ethereal, disembodied space. The internet is not real life. The internet might contain parts of your own real life. But please, remember that your real life is not everybody's real life.

In real life, we have a locality, a demographic, a context. In real life, we have to do what works for us, where we are. And we have to at least consider that what works wonderfully well for us may be disastrous in another context.

And so, knowing my friend's locality and context, when people from across the waters cried 'police!' I cried 'enough'. Calling the police and expecting justice because you've been called a libellous name may be feasible in some people's own backyards, but in many other places in the real world, the word 'pedophile' will cause an official reaction of 'guilty till proven innocent'.

Where there's smoke there's fire, etc, etc.

It's absolute rubbish- of course it is. But in my friend's context, the absolute last thing I'd do to make the sick feeling in the bottom of my stomach go away would be to call the cops.

That makes me sound like a terrible cynic, right? No, I'm just a realist. A realist who doesn't want her friend to feel any more abused than he already does. So let's not get carried away and delude ourselves that underpaid, overworked police who are completely overwhelmed with calls about domestic violence, drug infringements, murders, child abductions and other major crimes are going to hear anything other than the buzzword 'pedophile' when somebody gets abused on the internet. Pedophile + computer = seize and investigate the hard drive. THAT is the equation I fear we would provoke.

The police don't share our context of knowing this man is good and genuine. They're not here in our cosy little cyberspace world with us. Their reality is one of suspicion and extreme stress, which can lead to badly judged short-cuts.

And that got me thinking about how easy it is for us to sit here pontificating, suggesting, advising into the ether, without sparing a thought for context. It's so easy to write blog posts and comments with our blinkers on, seeing only the lane directly ahead of us and forgetting that other people's lanes look very different. Heaven knows I've done it myself.

I think of the recent spate of controversies about using food in EC activities. What a lot of tension that provoked, as people divided along party lines to argue their case. Sensory play versus the ethics of waste- was there ever going to be a winner?

Finally someone (who'd obviously taken a deep breath and looked around her before piping up) invoked context, and the whole thing settled down. You have to do what works for you, where you are.

If the children in your centre aren't getting enough to eat at home, if food is at a premium in the country from which the majority of your parent body migrated, then making pasta necklaces and spaghetti rainbows is likely to be viewed as insensitive and wasteful. As an EC professional, or as one of those parents, you're going to be upset by the flurry of food-related activities that are unleashed as other bloggers catch onto the coat-tails of one successful post.

But for others, especially those who've researched toddler learning styles, sensory play makes the world go round and is an important part of the developmental learning program. For example, children who've spent most of their early childhood in care might well have missed out on the sensory input of playing with their food, and EC workers need to fill that gap. If you're one of those who really is 'in loco parentis' every day, you'll defend food play to the hilt.

And never the twain shall meet.

It doesn't really matter what the topic is. We all know that vaccination, breastfeeding, circumcision and co-sleeping, for example, will cause people to queue up in two neat lines to put in their passionate two cents' worth; even less inflammatory topics like helicopter parenting versus risky play can start the odd conflagration. On both sides, there will always be people coming from a place of hurtful experience. Context rules.

It comes down to taking off the blinkers and looking around before putting our fingers to the keyboard. It's so easy to sound like an expert on the internet. But nothing we say or suggest is a perfect panacea, and if we don't acknowledge that, we may end up stirring up a perfect storm.

Depression and childcare

2012-03-14T15:16:00.000+10:00

I belong to a small discussion site on the net, where like-minded early childhood workers can mull over sensitive issues in private. One of the issues that's come up recently is the rate of depressive episodes amongst members of our group; to our amazement, we discovered that over half our group members grapple with depression on a fairly regular basis.

And that made me think.

I can't imagine that depressive personalities would gravitate to a demanding, underpaid, often frustrating profession like childcare by choice. Surely if we knew we were at risk, we'd avoid professions like this one like the plague.

But wait, maybe it's the other way round. Perhaps there's something about childcare that activates depression in those who are that way inclined. (And of course, childcare may well have the same effect on parents who are that way inclined... so if you're a depressed parent, read on...)

Though on the other hand, perhaps it IS often the extra-sensitive, emotionally tuned-in types who do go into caring professions like childcare in the first place, without realising it's making them a sitting duck for depression. People who lack a tough outer shell themselves can empathise with the vulnerability of children, and can feel a call to protect and nurture them. Anyone want to argue with that?

I'm not a mental health expert. I'm just thinking out loud because I'm in a hole right now, and because some people in my profession (who I've never met but have come to care about) also admit to falling in holes. Often.

So, what does Aunt Annie- a sufferer from depression herself- have to offer on this subject that might be the least bit helpful to others?

Well, I can offer you my observations about the nature of 'us', those with depressive tendencies, versus the nature of 'them', the non-depressives. Maybe that will give us some hints on where we need to change or work on ourselves.

Or maybe we'll look at some features of depressives and non-depressives and decide that being depressive about childcare is actually functional, and feel more comfortable with our lot.

So here's my view of the difference between 'us' and 'them'. Please feel absolutely free to argue the point in the comments, because your view may well help elucidate things.

I have absolutely no doubt that teaching in general, and early childhood care in particular, is an extremely high-stress profession. We're the meat in the multi-layered sandwich, expected to be in several places at once and expecting to be ground to a pulp at any moment by the giant teeth of those more powerful than us within the system. We're squeezed and pinched every day by the needs and demands of the kids, their parents, our bosses, our colleagues, the government, the endless documentation, the lousy pay, our long-suffering families, and most of all our own expectations of ourselves... no wonder some of us feel paper-thin and easily torn.

So what makes some workers better able to survive the pressure without succumbing to the (clinical) blues?

I look at some of the people working in childcare who don't suffer from depression, and what I see around many of them is a nice, neat box. "THIS over here, outside the box, is work. THIS, inside the box, is me."

In other words, they have a capability to leave their work at work. Whether this is because they're incredibly well-adjusted and realise that their power is limited to change some of the things that we all see as wrong in our workplaces, or whether they really don't see those things or don't think they're important and just turn up for the pay packet because it's the only job they could get, is immaterial to my point. The people who don't fall in holes seem to maintain a separation that's good for their mental health.

So those of us who do bring our work home in our heads- what on earth we can do to save a neglected or abused child, the difficulty of changing parents' or colleagues' or even society's unproductive attitudes, the daily struggles with new government regulations or with nap time chaos or with a defiant, violent 4-year-old- those of us who are still thinking about that when we should be sleeping, or reconnecting with our partner or our own children, or giving ourselves some recovery time, need to think about whether this is a desirable, useful trait that makes us a compassionate carer and a productive member of the human race, or just a painful way to burn ourselves out and be of no use to anyone.

Boundaries. We depressed and depressive carers have to be specially careful about boundaries. We have to build higher walls around our private lives- consciously, with love for ourselves and with a sense of value for our own sanity.

But at the same time, maybe we need to give ourselves a pat on the back for noticing these things that are wrong and putting ourselves out there to try to change things. Maybe there's nothing wrong with spending some of our own time nutting out solutions- as long as we recognise when to stop and give ourselves some sanity time, some relationship time, some 'me' time.

After all, one of the wonderful thing about us deeply-thinking, deeply compassionate depressives is our willingness to acknowledge shades of grey. We don't put our world into a black box and a white box. We understand that there are dilemmas. We're still grappling with WHY the child who hits does so, long after the black-and-whiters have consigned him to the black 'naughty' box and forgotten about him the moment they walked out the door (just as they consigned the compliant pink princesses to the white 'good' box). It worries us, deeply, that other people take these short-cuts. I, for one, will accept depression if it's the price of not categorising and dismissing children.

(Though I do need to learn when to let go of the thoughts that go round and round in circles. I'm getting better at it. Blogging helps.)

Another thing I notice about the 'copers' is that they often can shrug their shoulders and say "It'll work itself out in time". Whether this is a throw-away line to wiggle themselves out of having to think/care, or whether it's the result of experience and knowing that sweating the small stuff (and even some of the medium stuff) is probably a waste of effort, is immaterial to my point. Non-depressives seem to recognise and accept that sometimes you just have to wait for something outside your control to change, no matter how wrong a situation might seem.

Meanwhile, the depression-prone may leap in where angels fear to tread, standing up for what they believe even if it means exposing their tender necks on a chopping block. Well, that can be a fine and moral thing to do, as long as you do it with the understanding that the axe might fall on your neck and nothing else will change. It's great when it works, and something shifts because you stood up for your principles. It's not so great when you end up on the outer, with even less power to change things for the better.

Or maybe the depression-prone workers just despair. Feel hopeless, and overwhelmed, and succumb to despair.

So maybe from the non-depressives, we can learn some patience and moderation. We can change our own practices to reflect our philosophy and hope that others learn from our modelling, rather than pushing for systemic change straight away. We can classify more problems as 'small stuff'. We can practise saying "Whatever" and taking a deep breath, as we think about more pleasurable moments than this one right here; we can think about past successes instead of current failures, and all the painful moments we experienced along those old roads. We can remember that all things must pass eventually, and just hang in there- perhaps with slightly lower expectations of other people.

And meanwhile, we can pat ourselves on the back for caring. We can be proud that we notice things- little things, big things- that need to change, because noticing is the first step on a long journey towards sustainable, deeply-ingrained changes. And changing our own behaviour so that we are role models is the first step towards teaching others to change.

It is, after all, the people who care who change the world for the better. Just, it takes time.

I think the third part of this observation of the non-depressives is the most important. Non-depressives don't seem to care so much if people like them or not. They're less hung up on approval. They're just being themselves, and others can take it or leave it.

I think that's part of having a slightly thicker skin. In my next life I plan on being a rhinoceros, just to feel what it's like.

So, depressives of the world, repeat after me:

1. It doesn't matter a jot whether I'm liked by people I don't respect.

2. The only people who are universally liked are the ones sitting on the fence.

3. Fences are uncomfortable places for people like me, therefore some people will not like me.

4. Being popular is not an indicator of being right.

Got that? Good. Please make me repeat that to myself next time I'm in a hole, because this is one of my huge problems. (Star sign Libra, harmony and peace, blah blah blah, you get it. I don't do good discord.)

And there's one last thing. People who don't get depressed seem to be a bit better at saying no. That's probably because they're not hung up on approval. That's probably because they're not hung up on saving the world single-handedly.

Meanwhile, the depressive types are often overwhelmed because they said 'yes' too fast. They see a million things that need to be done. They feel responsible for all of them.

This is where all of us depressives should go and take a cold shower. The sky is not going to fall if we say "Let me think about that" instead of "yes" or "no" (especially if it's "yes" when we really want to say "no").

Go on. Stand in front of the mirror and practise saying "Let me think about that". It might be the most important thing you need to do today, because a carer who's overwhelmed and thus in the depths of clinical depression is likely to underachieve on everything.

Right, then... that's done... now, there are a million things I should be doing today instead of writing this blog post, so that I meet everyone's expectations and make everyone else happy- so I'd better get on with it.

Oh, wait...

Turning parents on to risky play

2012-03-08T13:31:00.000+10:00

If you've been following the groundswell of research and opinion online about risky play, you'll know that cotton wool care should be a thing of the past. It's a dinosaur. It's counter-productive. Kids need to be taking risks- it's part of their developmental learning curve. Kids need to be allowed to maybe hurt themselves, in minor ways, now and then.

Sadly, when we remove our ostrich-heads from the sandpit of cyberspace and look around us, we see that not very much has changed. Many carers would still rather stop kids from doing something than take the risk themselves of having to find the Band-Aids and write an incident report. (And explain it to the parents at pick-up time.) Many parents would rather swaddle children in cotton wool than feel the guilt of allowing their child to hurt themselves when they could have prevented it.

So what on earth can we do? How can we get the message across?

Well, not by sitting here on the internet bleating about it- that's for sure. We all know that the people we need to talk to aren't reading this.

To get the message across, we also have to take some risks. As advocates for risky play, we have to risk telling uncomfortable truths about risky play to parents who don't want to hear them. Who may see our comments as a negative judgment on their parenting style. Who may think us lazy or uncaring for wanting their children to engage in play that might hurt them.

And there is no easy way to change human behaviour. There is no quick way to change human behaviour. To achieve change we must be patient, be committed, and above all be brave.

Are you brave enough to try to change parents' thinking about risky play?

Here's a radical plan.

First, you put a large notice in a prominent place. Somewhere the parents can't miss it.

THIS CENTRE SUPPORTS RISKY PLAY

Be prepared to explain yourself when parents comment.

Next you start changing what you display in your daily photos. Parents love to look at photos of their children's daily activities, don't they? And come on, be honest: you censor what you take pictures of, don't you? You only photograph things that make you look like a 'good carer'. A safe carer.

A risk-free carer.

I dare you to decorate a prominent part of your centre with photos of children doing risky things. You know they do those things every day, whether you forbid it or not.

"Why on earth would I do that?! The parents will scream," you cry!

Yes they will. (Many of them will- not all. You may be surprised who supports you.) Some will be up in arms. And that is your moment to talk about the benefits of risk, because you have their attention.

What are you going to say when the parents start objecting to this unsafe environment?

Here's an uncomfortable truth about risky play: children who want to take a risk will frequently do it behind your back if you forbid it in your presence. Share that fact with these parents.

Make a poster of that fact, and display it with the photos of your centre's children sneaking around the corner and playing with sticks. Or shimmying up the shade cloth supports, to the very top. Or standing up on the roof of the fort. When the parents ask awkward questions about what these children are doing, that's your cue to explain human nature. Children are programmed to teach themselves risk assessment. We are getting in their way by stopping them, and there are life-long consequences if we succeed.

Truth is very uncomfortable, isn't it? Are you tearing your hair out and screaming "I CAN'T DO THAT!!!!"?

Yes, you can. You have to start a conversation with even the most resistant parents. You have to make them see that controlled risk is desirable, because otherwise you either get uncontrolled risk or no risk. BOTH ARE DANGEROUS FOR CHILDREN. You're an advocate for children, aren't you? Aren't you?

When I was doing my uni assignment on risky play, I became invisible behind my camera. I wasn't working that day; I was just taking pictures and observing. I'd read the research that found that children take risks out of the adults' sight if they're not allowed to do it in an adult's presence. I simply stopped intervening, until the kids forgot I was an adult. Then this was what I saw.

I saw kids having fist fights.

I saw kids playing with sticks- in this case while running around on the balance beams.

I saw kids piling blocks into wobbly towers, climbing onto them and leaping off...

...and sometimes falling off. And crying. And then pretending they weren't crying, because then I might say "I told you not to do that." (I didn't.)

I saw kids 'misusing' the play equipment.

Go on. Tell me that doesn't happen in your playground. Of course it does.

And yes, of course it's a risk to just admit that children get up to this stuff regardless of our attempts to supervise them and make rules... unless we also made it very clear that this is normal, and necessary for their development, and we are scaffolding it and allowing it because we are good teachers who care about the children's future. We have to make it clear that the children are learning vital things when they do this. We have to make clear to the parents the consequences of a risk-free childhood.

We have to make it clear that we are failing in our duty as educators if we stifle risk.

And so you need a sustained campaign- Rome was definitely not built in a day. Also, Rome was not built by the faint-hearted. (How fair dinkum are you about this? Hmmm?)

(Building Rome may require you to educate your educators, too. If you have dissent in the ranks you'll never win the parents over. It's called 'professional development'- do it. Do it first, if this is an issue.)

The long haul means keeping attention on the issue. Toss a few bombs into each newsletter; make posters of these 'bombs' and stick them on the parents' noticeboard. Referenced, factual, clearly expressed bombs are what you need. Like these:

Children who aren't allowed to take risks are more prone to anxiety conditions later in life. No risk = fear, insecurity, anxiety, lack of self-esteem.
-Sandseter & Kennair, 2011

Without risky play, children don't learn risk management. (This is not something you want your child to learn behind the wheel of his first car.)
-Little & Wyver, 2008; Curtis and Carter, 2000

Risky play teaches analysis skills. (They're vital for academic learning.)
-The Plowden Report, 1967

Children learn by experience, not by being told. No risk = no experience of risk = no learning about risk = inappropriate risk-taking later.

Are you getting the idea? You have to be strong, persuasive and succinct. Nobody is going to read a whole paragraph- parents are busy people. You need sound bites. In bold. In a box.

Let's go back to those photos. Across the top of your pictures of risky play, put appropriate sound bites about risky play. Underneath, you need a succinct analysis of what the children are learning by playing that way. (You might also want to add how you helped to scaffold their risky play, if you have the sort of parents who do stand and read the noticeboard.)

Fist-fights? Superhero play? This teaches concepts of power, self-control and empathy. You are scaffolding this by talking about it at mat time and encouraging the children to make their own rules around it. (Well, you are, aren't you?)

Playing with sticks? That child was showing an important marker of mental development by using a stick as a symbol of a sword. And of course you guided the play by replacing the sticks with pool noodles, didn't you, and discussing cause and effect? Did you poke holes in the mud with sticks, to see how easily they penetrate soft surfaces? Did you discuss what happens if sticks go in eyes? Did the children make rules for using sticks? Did the need to use sticks as swords diminish once it wasn't a way of rebelling?

As for those wobbly blocks- the children are learning vital lessons about balance, control, building rigid structures, risk factors, cause and effect... and you'll discuss that too, won't you? I found the children were so keen to talk about what they'd been doing in the playground and do their own risk assessment, as long as they could see the photo of themselves doing it.

Look, it's not going to happen immediately. You can't walk into your centre with a different attitude to risky play next week and expect that everyone there will go along with you. But you can't sneak it in, either- you have to make it an event.

Have you got the guts to do it?

Computers- educational friend or foe?

2012-02-26T12:17:00.002+10:00

Ah, computers. Where would we be without them? How would we manage in this century, when everyone is assumed (by everyone from the banks to our employers) to have access to the internet, if we didn't have that technology at our fingertips?

Of course children must learn to use computers. They'll be crippled without that skill. Time has marched on, and you'd better keep pace or you'll be left behind.

And yet there's this groundswell of opinion, in the blogosphere and in the scientific community, against technology in the home, against technology in the classroom. What are these people on, you might wonder? Why are they dragging their feet? Technology is now a fact of life, you cry. Get with the program. Our children must be allowed to use computers as much as possible! As much as we do, in fact! Quick, hand them an iPad or an iPhone, or they'll be left behind!

But yet again, it's all about balance, folks. Sorry to repeat myself.

Computers and education can be a marriage made in heaven, as long as there's balance, and clear intent, and a guide with a very firm hand.

I'm as hooked on my laptop as the next person. I've been sucked in to everything from mindless games to turn my hyperactive brain off at the end of the day, to Facebook so I can keep in touch with my distant friends (and they're all distant- thank heavens for FB!), to relying on the technology to find everything from my shopping to my next job. I live miles from anywhere. Computers save my sanity, not to mention saving me from using countless litres of fuel driving many miles to do small but vital tasks.

Without balance, though, my relationship with my real-life human partner comes unstuck because I forget to spend time with him. My fitness goes down the toilet. My eyes start to fail. My environment becomes chaotic, because I get 'lost' in the world of the computer and forget about the real world. I start to sneeze from the dust mites, the tomatoes rot on the vine because I didn't go out to pick them, my dog looks at me sadly wanting to play.

And how are children any different? With computers, children can drill themselves in reading, spelling, maths and a multitude of other skills, and feel like they're having fun. They can research all sorts of topics without mum and dad spending thousands on a set of encyclopaedias that'll be out of date by next year. They can make music, write and publish stories, have pen friends all over the world and learn about other cultures...

...and sit on their rears till they get obese, play repetitive closed-end games till they lose any spark of creative thought they ever had, build neural connections that demand five second 'grabs' of information before moving on and so create a personal case of ADHD (yes, the research is in), get bullied by their peers even in their own bedrooms...

Balance. Computers have become like food. We can't live without them, but for many of us, they become an addiction that we have to monitor constantly.

I'm a relatively old computer addict at 55, having started my literacy journey in the first flush of the music sequencing and notion revolution when I was teaching musical composition to adolescents. It was like magic back then- it made incredible things possible, even for the least musically talented of my students. And having discovered the magic in one area, I went seeking it in others too. I got the technology bug.

But the day came when I landed the job of Head of Music in a private school which prided itself on being ahead of the technological tide. Every student in the early years had a laptop, which was expected to be used for educational purposes in every lesson (with the possible exception of sport), and the aim was to push this initiative through until every child in the school was educated in every class of the day using their computer.

Does it sound idyllic, techno buffs?

I learned a salutary lesson that year. I went in thinking that this school really had it together, was really ahead of the game. And I discovered that it was mayhem. I loathed it. I lasted a year before I threw in the job in disgust.

Why? I simply wasn't doing any teaching.

But how could this be? I was a computer addict myself! Why wasn't I banging the same drum as the senior admin people? Why couldn't I learn to work with the technology to make my teaching even more fabulous?

Here is what compulsory computer-based classroom education looks like.

The first ten minutes of the lesson are spent dealing with children who have no battery power left, because they played games in the bus all the way to school and at every break, missing the opportunity to interact with other students or (in break time) be physically active. Half of these will have left the power cord at home. The other half will all be trying to find a free socket to plug into, but there won't be enough free sockets, so then they'll either decide they have a free ride for the lesson ("I can't do anything, Miss, my battery's dead") or start fighting for access.

In the meantime, the other kids have become bored and restless. They've lost focus, and you haven't even started.

The next ten minutes of the lesson are spent trying to get everyone back on task and teaching the lesson the way you intended, during the course of which you discover that there are even more students without a computer because they're in for repairs and the backlog is killing the school technician with stress. Some kids will be without their machine for months. These children will also be stressed, feeling they're disadvantaged and falling behind- or they will have discovered the habit of laziness.

So now you have bored, unfocussed, lazy kids and stressed, anxious, tearful kids- and none of what you're doing has anything to do with what you were trying to teach.

The next ten minutes of the lesson are spent frantically trying to restructure the lesson so the kids without computers can take part too. The temptation to tell everyone to shut down and just teach the way you used to is overwhelming, but you're not allowed to do that, because then the parents who have mortgaged the house to buy laptops for all four kids at the school will be waiting outside the gate with an axe to ask you politely why they had to waste all that money if you're not even using the damn things.

At this point, your own teaching pedagogy is hopelessly compromised. You have too many demands on you to actually teach anything effectively. The thought of going outside and letting everyone run around for the rest of the lesson is inviting; at least they'd be gaining something.

The remaining half hour is spent patrolling the room, trying to teach something- anything- in between shutting down games, because even many of the kids who actually want to learn just don't have the willpower to resist. You can't actually teach from the front any more; you have to march around flicking from the lesson plan to the escape key like a drillmaster on crack. (Those who want to argue that computer games aren't addictive, please queue outside in an orderly fashion while I prepare enough nice white coats with tie-back sleeves.) Interspersed with shutting down games, you will also be coping with the hands shooting up to say "My battery just ran out and I can't find a socket / don't have my power cord" and the hands shooting up to say "Mine looks different to that" or "My screen just went black".

And then there are the children who just aren't into technology. Instead of grappling with what they're trying to learn in your class, they're also forced to grapple with operating a machine which they neither understand nor like. Your subject doesn't get a look in with these kids, because while the rest of the kids are starting the task they're still trying to find the right icon and clicking the wrong button. That's what they're meant to be doing in IT class, not in every class of the day.

And what about the teacher? There is no thread, no continuity; if you follow the thread of the lesson when someone's just lost power, you consciously decide to leave them behind flailing on the sidewalk while you march relentlessly on. Mmm, great teaching practice there.

And then the bell goes. Game over. Usher in the next lot of kids and do it all over again.

This is the problem with putting a fallible object like a computer between the teacher and the child. In the end, it's all about the machine. It's not about the subject matter, it's not about enlightenment or creativity. There's this piece of metal and plastic and circuitry that we keep banging into before we can even get started with getting kids excited about learning. The lesson is constantly skewered by technicalities.

Using computers effectively in education requires two things. First, the computers have to be working- all of them. Secondly, the students and teachers have to be able to use the computers effectively without the computers using them. And that's a skill that many children simply don't have. We're talking self-discipline, impulse control, focus. Not exactly skills that year 8 students, for example, are renowned for. In fact, I don't start to find that skill in most children till they're about 16.

I'm betting that the day will come when it's proved that computers are intrinsically addictive, because I've watched what they can do to even the most intelligent, motivated students when free access is allowed at all hours. I know uni students who've failed because of their addiction to computer games- don't you?

If your aim is to get the kids out of your hair, then sure, let them play on the computer for hours. All lesson, if you're a teacher and you're over it. (You could also give them a lot of beer. The effect would be similar.) But don't fool yourself that it's educational, regardless of the program. Don't fool yourself that it's anything but lazy parenting or lazy teaching. Sorry. Turn the damn thing off. Two hours total, on all screens, per day.

Used when appropriate, computers can facilitate education in amazing ways. But they are not a panacea, nor are they a sugar pill. In classrooms they need to be used like a potent drug, taken when required with an educator's prescription only. In my senior music composition class they were a wonder, a miracle without parallel; in all the other types of music lesson, they didn't feature at all.

Yes, every child needs to know how to use technology. That's why they brought in IT classes. But don't be fooled. A lot of the time, the computer just gets in the way.

A lot of the time, the computer just leads your child astray.

7 ways to recognise a good teacher

2012-02-24T10:48:00.000+10:00

Today both Janet Lansbury and Teacher Tom have posted about how not to teach. Well, that's the message I took away from their posts, anyway! Have a look, and see if you agree with me.

Anyway, I thought perhaps I'd take the opposite tack and tell you about some things to look for in a good teacher. You should be able to use these guidelines whether you're looking for a coach or tutor, assessing whether your child needs to move to a different class, or choosing a preschool.

Be warned: at no point will I mention test scores. The reason for this? Test scores don't measure how far a child has come from their personal starting point. A good teacher value-adds to every child's original potential, and that can't be measured in a comparative-result test.

How I wish our governments would use this list, instead of the statistical claptrap they insist on relying on. Teacher Tom will tell you what's wrong with that approach.

So here we go:

1. A good teacher sees the child at once. Look for acknowledgement of and interaction with your child as soon as the teacher meets them for the first time.

This is really important, it's my number 1, because a good teacher always looks on children as worthy of respect and is genuinely interested in meeting your child.

A good teacher introduces him/herself to the child as well as to the parent, and includes the child in any conversation. The age of that child doesn't matter! Even a baby is not an inanimate object, and so a good carer will address the baby, with respect.

2. How does the teacher speak to your child? A good teacher uses adult language when addressing a child, with word choice appropriate to the child's age, and adjusts the level of language appropriately depending on the child's response.

A good teacher never patronises or talks down to a child, and realises quickly if the child's communication skills are not age-typical (in either direction)- then compensates. Your child will understand what a good teacher is saying to them, or if they don't, the teacher will get down on their level and keep trying until they succeed.

3. How does the teacher interact with your child? A good teacher asks open-ended questions, and listens to the responses with an open mind. A good teacher invites the child to initiate conversations with him, and really listens, and responds.

If you read the Janet Lansbury post, you'll see in my comment there that my blood pressure rose considerably when I read about the teacher who told a preschooler that a disc shape was called 'round', not 'circle'. That's dreadful teaching. It's not respectful, and it's not fair. That teacher had made up her mind what the answer was, and she wasn't listening to the children any more.

(That's the sort of teacher who, in high school, marks correct alternative answers wrong in the exam, because it wasn't what she had in her head when she set the question. Maddening. Unfair. Makes the child withdraw and stop trying. And I see red!!)

Teachers like that stifle creativity as well as skewing factual learning. Run a mile from teachers like that, as Janet did.

Speaking of fair,

4. A good teacher is fair.

Remember, my definition of 'fair' isn't 'giving everyone the same thing'. My definition of 'fair' is 'giving everyone what they need'. So if there's a dispute between two children, a good teacher will recognise that both children need her loving intervention, not just the perceived 'victim'. So she won't, for example, vilify anyone in her class. Not even the 'problem' children- or what you might see as the 'problem' children.

Listen to your child's feedback, because unfair behaviour is the first thing they'll complain about; you might need to speak to the teacher about your child's needs, or you might need to explain to your child that other children have different needs which the teacher is trying to meet. (Keep an open mind till you know the facts, and remember that teachers are bound to keep information about other students confidential.)

And by the way, speaking of confidentiality and professionalism- if you complain about another child's behaviour to the teacher and she vilifies that child in any way in response, you can bet your bottom dollar that your own child's private information isn't safe with her.

5. Does your child seem interested, or bored? A good teacher uses the children's interests to motivate them and keeps the learning relevant to the child's world as far as possible.

That means he finds out what the children are interested in, and teaches around that. (Yes, even a maths teacher can do that to some extent- or at the very least explain the relevance of the material.) I'm doing it myself at the moment with a reading student; amazing how much better he performs when I give him reading material he's interested in!

You see, good teachers know their students, and I don't just mean their name. Good teachers are holistic- they see the child as more than just a receptacle for their own certain type of knowledge.

A good teacher sees children as capable; a great teacher will set the bar slightly high, then adjust downwards only if necessary- because that ensures the interest of the children. Doing stuff they can already do over and over is boring. Children are surprising creatures sometimes. We could all learn something about children's capabilities from good teachers, because good teachers will provoke you to say "I never knew he could do that!"

And good teachers love red herrings thrown in by the kids, because it helps them to know their students- and it shows them what the children might be interested in learning about.

Control-freak authoritarians are rarely good teachers.

6. Good teachers set little or no homework.

(waits for the explosion from Tiger Mum Central!!)

Good teachers don't need to set homework, because they made the information stick by teaching it engagingly in the first place. They also don't set homework because they recognise that the children who really don't get it won't be motivated to do it because it'll be all wrong, and the children who already get it and don't need more practice will probably sit down and do the homework when they'd be better off playing outside, and half the homework that's set will be done by the parents anyway.

Then the teacher will have to sit down and mark work that didn't even need to be done by kids who've already mastered the skill, instead of spending that time working out a new and creative way to help those who don't understand.

Good teachers might set the odd assignment to see if a child can utilise their learning in a different context, but a great teacher will give the children lots of time to work on that project at school- because they recognise that free social play and outdoor play are both extremely important to children's development.

(NB: Music and sporting practice are the exceptions here. Something that demands increasing muscle memory and strength does need home practice nearly every day. But please don't let that be to the exclusion of free, social and outdoor play!)

7. For good teachers, teaching is a vocation, not a job- and so good teachers aren't defensive about their practice. Because they're professionals, they'll keep up to date with current thinking because they want to, and they'll be interested in new approaches. They'll welcome your input about your child (as long as you're respectful with their time). They'll sound enthusiastic about teaching when they talk to you. They'll be masters of critical reflection, and they'll listen respectfully if you feel a need to question something or complain.

They may not agree with you. But they'll speak to you respectfully, because they're professionals and they recognise that teaching and parenting have common goals- to help your child to blossom.

Now... how am I going to get this list out there to be used by the government? :D

The importance of time out

2012-02-21T08:44:00.001+10:00

Okay, I admit it. That title is a con job. It suggests that I'm a fan of using 'time out' as a disciplinary strategy for children. I'm not- though in the interests of full disclosure I admit I used it myself 25 years or so ago, when it first became popular and I was a stressed-out working mum looking for answers.

'Time out' is what the experts used to tell us to use when kids pushed us past the point of no return, when they didn't respond to discipline, when we'd lost our rag with them, when we wanted to force them to stop and think and cool off. I suspect that those experts were subtly trying to tell us that there was an alternative to spanking.

And truly, time out is better than hitting your child. It's way, way better than losing the plot and shaking a baby. It's a million miles better than escalating physical punishment to the point where a child ends up in hospital. Or dead.

Let's not forget that.

Though perhaps we've been sending the wrong person to time out all these years. We're the adults; we have a hope of sorting out our feelings if we give ourselves a time out. A child who's sent to time out- well, they just don't have the experience yet to do that.

In the punitive days, we maybe called it the Naughty Step or the Naughty Corner; I'm not a big fan of that word 'naughty', either. It's awfully easy to label children's reactions to their inconvenient feelings as naughtiness. (Inconvenient feelings for us, that is. For the children themselves, they're probably inevitable feelings.)

That's really a power play. It's a cheap shot, getting your power kick by controlling a child with labels. If you need to feel powerful over a child, if you can't respect their humanity, you're reading the wrong blog. This blog is about respecting the children in our care.

(No, I'm not saying you have to strike the word 'naughty' from your vocabulary. Just be careful to label the behaviour, not the child, if you must use it.)

Perhaps we tried to sweeten 'time out' by labelling it the Quiet Space, or the Thinking Chair- but whatever we named that 'time out' strategy, we were making a point of letting that child know that right now, we didn't want their company. There was something wrong with them. They were Too Hard.

Time out was, essentially, the barbed wire fence at the edge of our unconditional love. Behave like that, and I put you outside the fence.

It's a bit of a dinosaur now, 'time out'. These days many of us recognise that there's something a little dodgy about isolating a child in a moment of anger (ours or theirs). These days many of us realise that it's more constructive to interact with an out-of-control child and acknowledge their emotions, if we want the solution to be more than a momentary Band-Aid. (You can read about some of my own strategies with out-of-control children here, and here. Or you can just go to my behaviour management page for all the relevant links.)

These days, I'd much rather put myself in 'time out' than a child. It's one thing to put yourself outside the barbed wire fence when your emotions are out of control; that's a considered decision by an adult, and often a wise decision. It's another thing entirely to put a child out in no-man's land with their big emotions, when they don't have the knowledge and experience to analyse what's going on. That teaches children one of two things- to stuff their big emotions away, or to lose trust in unconditional love.

I'll whack a label on my own forehead any day- angry, out of control, unacceptable, inappropriate- and go away till I've calmed down. But what can a child do with a label like that, whacked on their forehead by an adult?

They can accept it, I guess. I'm unacceptable. I'm inconvenient.

What, you expect them to distinguish between themselves, and the emotion, and the behaviour that came out of the emotion? How are they going to make those sophisticated distinctions out there on the other side of the fence all by themselves? That's what leads to the stuffing-down of feelings. And stuffed-down feelings are either going to explode one day- inconveniently, inappropriately- or they're going to make that child ill.

Or they can reject the label. You don't understand. You don't care how I feel. Instead of calming down, that child will be angrier, sadder, more frustrated. You'll see that a lot in older children, when you punish them and put them outside the barbed wire. That child will hesitate to share feelings next time. That child withdraws, ceases to trust, self-medicates.

No, I'm not a fan of time out, unless it's the adult taking the break. When we start talking about adults and time out, it does become important.

It's easy for me sitting here blogging, with my own child all grown up now and the children in my care handed back at the end of the day. It's easy for me to get a perspective on things- parenting, teaching, caregiving- to weigh and balance approaches, to analyse what might work best in a situation.

It's NOT easy for you.

You're in a whirlwind out there. You've got a million things competing for your attention, a million stresses on your shoulders. Maybe you're bearing the feelings and problems of a whole household as well as your own, and trying to keep your career or job flourishing as well. There's that mortgage hanging over your head, or the rent... How on earth do you do it? How do you stay rational?

You can't, unless you're giving yourself time out.

Yes, time out for the adults is terribly important when you lose your temper, but that's the Band-Aid solution. That's not the 'time out' I mean.

Real solutions come from calm reflection. Real solutions come from considering your problems without a two-year-old tugging your skirt and a 14-year-old walking out the door with her breasts hanging out of her halter top and a partner loading you with their work concerns while you're trying to cook dinner and then the twins start screaming over who gets first go on the PlayStation and when on earth are you going to finish that presentation for work?

Real solutions come from planned time out for adults.

Prioritise it.

And then use it wisely. Sibling rivalry will not be solved by a fourth glass of wine, or a weekend away where you don't give the kids a second thought because this is your time.

I'm not saying you shouldn't have your own down time- not at all!- but the 'time out' I'm talking about is perspective time. Time where you think about the way you can manage problems with your children, without any other pressure.

That sort of time out is important. How can you manage your priorities, so that you get some time out for reflection?

A letter to my teenage self- and a challenge

2012-02-14T21:23:00.002+10:00

There's a challenge going on in my town to write the things you wish you'd known when you were a teenager on a postcard. The postcards will go on display for young people to read.

But garrulous Aunt Annie couldn't imagine fitting all that sensitive information onto a postcard! So here's my letter-sized 'postcard' to the teenage Annie. It feels like a bit of reparenting, actually; it feels like forgiving myself for what I didn't know back then.

Why not try it yourself? The more we resolve our own issues, the more resourceful and resilient we become for our children. And who knows- when your children hit those teenage years, your letter to yourself might be a great way to bring up some tricky issues.

Note that this is a letter to myself! This isn't the way I'd talk to a teenager who wasn't me- not at all. I can be much more blunt to myself. :)

Dear Annie,

There are some things I want you to know, because I love you. I'm really sorry I wasn't around when you were growing up. Maybe one day time travel will make that possible, but for now I'll just have to give you this loving advice with the benefit of hindsight.

First of all, it's about this dieting thing. Annie, my dearest, diets don't work; diets make you crazy. Look at you. Every minute of the day, you're either thinking about what you're going to eat next or what you can't have. You need to just stop it, because you're not going to get thinner by starving yourself. It's not sustainable. Food- cooking it, making up recipes, serving it to others as well as enjoying it yourself- is going to become one of your greatest pleasures, when you get over this diet thing and just learn to make what you want and stop eating when you've had enough. But the more you diet, the harder it's going to be to find your natural body signals again.

You take after your Polynesian great-grandmother; you're curvy. You simply are never going to be that size 8 clotheshorse shape- or rather, the only way you'll acquire that shape is when you're unable to eat at all. Your hair will start to fall out. Your arms will look like skeleton arms. Sure, you'll fit into a bikini for once, but bald skeletons don't look good in bikinis. You'll be embarrassed when you see the photos.

And do you know what? Lots of men actually like curvy girls. Girl-shaped girls. You are girl-shaped. You will not cut the poor chaps in half with your hip bones when you make love. This is a good thing. Part of your style will be not looking the same as other people; you'll learn to dress to suit yourself. Start now.

And another thing- do you remember how much time you used to spend outside? Somehow you've got to find your love of the great outdoors again, because all this sitting around moping about your body size is robbing you of your energy and one of your greatest pleasures. Crazy, isn't it? The dieting steals the energy you need to be active, yet what you need to feel happy about your shape is the energy to move around and enjoy what your body can do.

And hey, don't wait till your late twenties to join that tap dancing class. You're going to love it. You're going to be good at it. You don't really hate exercise- you hate being told to exercise, and you hate competitive sport because you don't actually think beating people is fun. But that's okay. Dancing is exercise, and you love dancing.

But enough about your body. Bodies aren't nearly as important as you think they are, though health is. What about your mind and your heart?

I can see now that you've always let your heart rule your head. It would be better if you didn't have to hear that from your solicitor, after someone who said they loved you stole a lot of money from you and aged you five years in six months with mischievous legal action. Don't confuse passion with love. Hormones have a lot to answer for. Trust your instincts, and if your instincts say run for your life, don't worry about how it looks to other people. It's your life. It's not a dress rehearsal. Be brave.

I mean, you're your own worst enemy. I've got to say, Annie, I really love the way you give your loving support to others. You're a really generous person. But honey, there comes a point where you're letting people walk all over you, and then you disappear. It's like you fold yourself up and squeeze into a little box so you won't upset anyone. And then, where did you go? You can't even see yourself any more. A little self-preservation, Annie!

If someone really loves you, they won't ask you to squeeze into a box and disappear. They'll love you for who you are and they'll want you to shine out like the sun, not disappear into their shadow. I promise you you'll find someone who loves you like that, but you'll save yourself a lot of trouble if you can draw some lines in the sand. The sky won't fall if you insist on some room for your own personality and your own needs.

Oh, and one more thing about that- don't think you can change people. You can only change yourself. You always will have choices in your relationships, but those choices never include fixing people or changing people. If you want people to love you as you are, then you need to love them as they are too- and if you can't, make the choice to walk away.

You'll know when it's Mr Right. He'll see who you are and let you go on being who you are. He won't try to compete with you. He'll be too busy being himself and doing his own thing, and you'll love that. You won't recognise how wonderful it is to be with someone who does their own thing till you've spent some time on your own. Don't be scared of being alone. Being alone is wonderful. Being alone will give you some of the best times of your life. You don't have to have a partner hanging off your arm like a handbag to have a full life.

It's the same with your career; you let other people influence you too much. You already know what you love to do. You love music, but you love to write even more. Yet you're going to just drop the writing after school, because someone told you an arts degree wouldn't help you make money. That's a stupid reason to drop something you love so much. Stand up for yourself, Annie! Stop trying to please everyone else but yourself! Open the doors to doing what you love best.

I'm proud of you, Annie. You're not a drinker, you don't do drugs, you don't smoke. You're very strong and responsible. You deal with your problems by talking about them, or by reflecting on them. I want to warn you that some people hide their problems behind substance abuse. I want you to know that if someone says or does something awful to you while they're under the influence of alcohol, that is probably what they really think; that is probably what they're really like. Alcohol is a disinhibitor. Don't just forgive them for those things and make the excuse that they didn't know what they were saying. Take them as warnings, and act on them.

You're a good person, Annie. Take good care of yourself. Make sure you don't have so many people leaning on you that you become crushed yourself. Nurture your relationships with your girlfriends. There will be times when you need their support. Don't think you always have to be the strong one. Don't hesitate to get professional help when you're overwhelmed. It will be the best choice you ever make and it will teach you so much about yourself. Asking for help doesn't mean you're weak; it means you're human.

And the last thing I want to say to you is, don't be scared of aging. Wisdom does actually make up for starting to lose your looks. It's a wonderful feeling to have so much of your sh*t together after all this time on earth.

The frustrating part is not being able to share it with you when you need it.

Your ever loving
Annie

Sometimes I despair: changing people's minds about child care

2012-02-08T12:23:00.001+10:00

Caring for children is such an emotive subject. Every day as I read others' blog posts and websites and news articles- and yes, I do a LOT of reading every day- I see parents and educators struggling as they try to be rational and honest about a subject which is so loaded with feelings that the slightest slip of vocabulary or expression can send people into a complete flip.

There's an old wisdom that states that if you want social mayhem, just bring up sex, religion or politics. I'd like to add 'child rearing' to that. People feel so passionate about the way they've chosen to care for their children. It's almost become a sort of religion, with people from different philosophies desperately trying to convert others to their point of view. Sometimes a discussion thread turns into the verbal equivalent of a holy war. People get hurt. People get angry. Ego overpowers good sense. The 'holiness' of parenthood turns to 'holier than thou', and what started as a desire to enable valuable change gets compromised by people being downright nasty to each other.

So today I feel inspired to look at the mistakes we make when we're trying to change people's minds.

A common thread running through many heated (and often vitriolic) exchanges about child care is the belief that people will change their minds if you can prove them wrong using facts. If only that were true- if only parenthood was so rational! (If only human beings were so rational.)

This idea, that well-researched facts will sway personal beliefs, has been proved to be a furphy many times- climate change is probably the best illustration. It doesn't matter how many experts you have on your side; there will be a conspiracy theory or three, a contrary piece of research or ten, and an infinite body of personal belief based on anecdotal evidence thrown back at you.

Facts don't change minds. We're not computers. You can't input the data and expect a logical result. Human beings are more complex than that.

The reason that facts don't change minds is that most of us aren't scientists, and so we mistrust others' evidence. It's much easier to rely on what we know ourselves- the anecdotal evidence, the things that we've seen with our own eyes. If our child got sick after a vaccination, vaccination seems dangerous. If our child or husband is circumcised and seems to have no problems, we may think there's no problem with circumcision. If we were smacked but we feel like we've grown up okay, we see smacking as effective and harmless. We are so stuck in our own frames. We are so untrusting of the sometimes cold and distant evidence presented by strangers.

That's not to say that facts aren't useful- of course they are; before we go out on a limb trying to change someone's mind, we'd better be sure in our own mind that we're not just relying on anecdotes. We need to look outside our own frame and research our topic. But we can't expect the facts we discover to change anyone else's mind. Not on their own- no, no matter how shocking they are.

Does that make you feel despairing? It does me. Sometimes I despair that my wide knowledge of the human child, gained from a lifetime of study and experience, isn't easier to distribute so it might help others magically change their practice overnight. I've presented co-workers with facts about child-centred, empathetic childcare and teaching practice, encouraged them to change, and been laughed at and undermined for it. I've given honest, fact-based advice in forums, and been flamed for it. I feel your pain as you try to change the world, I really do. People sometimes just don't want to believe me. My experience isn't their experience; my frame isn't their frame.

Don't despair. I've learnt a few things along the way about better methods of changing people's minds. Bear with me.

Another method that seems to be used by some is the guilt-trip. Oh, come on- you know that doesn't work- did it ever work on you to change your beliefs, or did it just make you feel rotten or furious?

In fact, it doesn't work to such an extent that if you slip up and make someone feel bad about what they're doing, even by accident, you may well have lost them for good. Guilt creates fight-or-flight. When people feel guilty, they'll typically either find a way to support even an untenable position or they'll close down. It takes a very fine human being to look guilt in the eye straight off and say "I made a mistake, how can I fix it?" So drama is not your friend. Heightened emotions are not your friend.

And that brings me to language and expression. If you want to change people's minds, the first thing you have to do is try to stand in the other person's shoes and then think 'How does this issue look from here? How does it feel from here? What would I feel sensitive about if I were standing here?'. Once you've done that, you do have a hope in hell of choosing the right words.

Here's the crux of the matter: If you can't stand in the shoes of the person on the other side of the line, you have no hope of changing their mind. Speak to them the way you would like to be spoken to about your most deeply held personal views. This isn't about being patronising or dramatic, about humiliating others, about winning. It's about changing the world gently, one step at a time.

And this is why being a crusader for a cause doesn't work. Crusaders fill the whole frame with their own beliefs. They can't see anything outside that frame. To change people's minds, you need to make them feel that you understand their position and are prepared to work with them from where they are. You can't just whack them over the head with the facts, ridicule or patronise them if they argue and drag them over to your side. It doesn't matter how right you are. That won't work.

Telling stories is a good way to make people think about change. Share your own anecdotes, and when you listen to anecdotes from the other side of the line be very careful how you respond. You are treading on other people's personal experiences and beliefs; tiptoe.

Often we try to change too much at once. Enjoy the small wins! An over-controlling early childhood teacher, for example, who one day agrees to let the children choose what colour paints to use, equals a win for play-based learning. Let her discover the children's response for herself, and she'll be encouraged to go further. Don't nag her to let them decide what or how to paint as well, don't expect her to suddenly let go of the reins of the whole experience- it's not going to happen. One step at a time. Tell stories of what you saw during that experience instead of lecturing. Emphasise the good.

The last point I want to mention is that change is a painfully slow process. Here's the most difficult tip to embrace: stop pushing so hard, even if you feel your own position is vital and children's welfare is at stake.

I know this is counter intuitive, but if you want change to happen you do have to stop pushing and let people take themselves there at their own speed. Sometimes it takes generations. It is never as fast as we want it to be, or as fast as we think it should be. Here's an incredibly frustrating fact: you can't shock the human race into changing their ways overnight. You can't even hurry them up. People don't like being dragged along against their will. Let them walk, and feel their own way. Put your evidence out there without pressure, and work on your relationships with the people you want to change.

Remember that in the not-so-distant past, children were seen and not heard, beaten with straps, forced into child labour, sent away to wet nurses as a matter of course. Look how far we've come, and rejoice; realise that the fruits of your labours for change may not be seen for many years.

It's still worth doing, though, isn't it?

Obedience does not equal respect

2012-02-01T11:55:00.002+10:00

There's been a lot of talk about obedience lately, hasn't there?

At one end of the spectrum, we have the ratbag fringe advocating whipping your baby with whipper-snipper cord to teach him to obey you- excuse me while I throw up, and then cry bitter tears for that sad and deluded segment of the human race. (I'm betting that all the people reading this think that's totally appalling, so I won't go on and on about it, because it makes us all sick to the stomach.)

At the other end- well, I guess you could say there's me. I actually worry when children are too obedient, and I worry even more when adults expect and want children to be unquestioningly obedient.

I think a lot of people confuse 'obedience' with 'respect'. When their children don't do as they're told, the parent or carer feels hurt, insulted or not respected. And of course, there are times when we need our children to obey us immediately- when there's serious imminent danger, you need the power of "STOP"- but let's not confuse that with a child who doesn't pick up their toys, or won't practise the piano or do their homework, or still hasn't taken the garbage out, or breaks curfew. (To give "STOP" power, you need a respectful relationship with your child and you need not to overuse that word.)

So first, let's explore the difference between obedience and respect, shall we?

I'm going to start with a special needs child I used to teach, the adorable "Bodie", aged nearly 5. Bodie looked, to all accounts, like the most disobedient child on the planet- climbing the furniture, opening forbidden drawers, hitting other children and so on. Bodie had as-yet undiagnosed Aspergers with ADHD. His 'disobedience' was actually a response to inappropriate stimuli- a noisy room, too many colours and lights and toys at once, many children he didn't know, many demands with which he literally couldn't comply ("look at my eyes" was one) and some metaphorical or colloquial demands he translated literally (such as "hop up" instead of "stand up").

Now, I'm sure you understand that you can't rate that sort of disobedience as a lack of respect. In fact, it's a perfect example of one of the mistakes we make when experiencing disobedience from neurotypical children too- we haven't considered the child's frame of reference.

When we order an adolescent not to associate with another child who we consider a bad influence, for example, we aren't taking into account the very significant knock-on effects of peer group pressure and exclusion from a clique. Fear can present as disobedience, and the last thing we want is to make our child choose between fear of peer group ostracism and fear of us.

Similarly, when we order a toddler to stop playing because it's time to leave, we need to remember that this child is experiencing a hugely important time of rapid learning- and you may have just interrupted an important and fascinating process of intellectual growth that you haven't even noticed, because you're too stressed yourself. To get respect, we need to disempower the concept of obedience in our own head, and instead model respect by considering the child's frame.

Once I understood where Bodie was coming from, I was able to see his disobedience as a response not to me, but to unreasonable demands due to my lack of insight into his needs. This is always worth considering when your child isn't obeying you. Once I'd got myself inside his frame, although he couldn't always obey me, he did show me respect in his own way. From Bodie, respect looked like cuddles, and smiles, and occasional eye contact, and using my name (that was HUGE). The children's story I shared in this post is about Bodie, if you'd like to get inside his frame too. (No, it's not his real name!)

Next in my thoughts about obedience, I want to go to another special needs child- my own son, who is gifted/talented (and if you don't think that's a special need, you need to read this). My ex-partner (not his father, I might add) considered him the most disobedient child on the planet, because he almost never obeyed an instruction at once- sometimes not at all. Meanwhile I was unable to support my ex's displeasure and present a united front, because I didn't value obedience for its own sake. (Which is just one reason we're not together now- but I digress!)

What was going on in my son's head when he was given an 'order'? First of all, as a gifted person he is a deep thinker, and was from a remarkably young age. He would consider the implications of the 'order' from both practical and emotional viewpoints before acting. Was the 'order' something that would fit in with his immediate needs? Was it a good idea? Did he agree with the underlying intent? Did he respect the person giving the 'order'? Was he being manipulated?

Now, your immediate reaction to that might be 'what a thoroughly unpleasant child', to have such thoughts. Well, actually that's exactly the way I wanted him to think.

(I'm not saying it was always easy to be his mum. Sometimes the easy way is the wrong way.)

First, he was considering his own frame (was the 'order' something that would fit in with his immediate needs?), which meant that he was taking responsibility for his own welfare. He wasn't going to grow up like me, always jumping to everyone else's aid to the detriment of his own wellbeing.

I have to add that he is now the first to offer a hand when anyone genuinely needs help, so he is walking that tightrope very well these days after practising from an early age.

Secondly, he was thinking for himself and assessing the situation before acting as a knee-jerk response (was it a good idea? Did he agree with the underlying intent? Did he respect the person giving the 'order'? Was he being manipulated?). Children who think like this are never going to join cults and herd-mentality groups like Hitler Youth. They are not going to be the 4-year-old child who, when told by a 5-year-old bully to put caterpillars down a younger child's pants, meekly obeys (yes, that is an actual incident). They are not going to die because an adult in a position of power involves them in a stupid game involving eating peanut butter, and they obey despite being allergic to it (that is also an actual incident). They are probably not even going to take the car out the day after they get their license and see how fast they can make it go, because they're considering their own welfare, assessing risk to themselves and not trying to please or impress someone who's not worthy of their respect.

That's exactly how I wanted him to grow up. It's not how my ex wanted him to grow up, though; my partner was trying to boost their personal self-esteem through control. I can see now that my ex-partner's alcohol abuse and manipulative behaviour (towards me and others) made that person unworthy of my child's respect; this was the real issue in my son's continuing disobedience. My son was actually giving me a message about my partner, if I'd only been listening.

And what about the little, irritating, everyday stuff? The 'not doing the piano practice' is one that's close to my heart, because that was me.

Here's a tip for you: if your child isn't practising their instrument at all, it hasn't captured their imagination and you need to either save your money or find out which instrument does motivate them.

And if they sound like they're just messing around on their instrument, rather than practising their exam pieces, butt out and leave them alone. (That was me.) They'll end up with a relaxed hand position, a more intimate knowledge of the instrument than any teacher can ever give them, and more than likely an ability to play by ear, which is the greatest gift a musician can have (because honey, when the wind blows the page over in the middle of the performance it's not an emergency). It's just like any other form of self-directed play- it's the best way of learning. Your child knows what he needs.

ORDERING a child to practise an instrument, or a sport, or maths problems, or any other activity for that matter, is not going to make them a prodigy or a champion. (How I wish I could emblazon that on my forehead so I was a walking billboard.) That is not disobedience. The definition of insanity is keeping on doing the same thing and expecting a different result; your child is just refusing to be insane. They're not motivated to do it, so they won't do the inner learning that's needed to succeed. It'll all be on the surface. LEAVE IT.

Homework not done? Let them fail. Read all about it right here- I wrote a whole post about that issue.

And the garbage that hasn't been taken out, the failure to observe a curfew? Well, yes, that might be a respect issue. Did you involve them in the allocation of chores, or the imposition of the curfew? Did you speak politely? Did you thank them sincerely last time they contributed to the household or came in on time? Do you maintain a respectful relationship with your child at all times? If the answer to any of those is 'no', then yes, it's a respect issue. You're not respecting them as a human being with rights and needs.

You have to earn respect. It's not your right. If you can't treat your child with respect, you don't deserve their obedience.

Unquestioning obedience has long-term implications which are- in my opinion- universally negative. It wasn't what I wanted for my child. Is it what you want for yours?

POSTSCRIPT: Teacher Tom has just written an awesome post on the same subject. Here 'tis- go over and have a look! Teacher Tom on obedience

The importance of water play: get that cotton wool wet!!!

2012-01-25T14:48:00.000+10:00

It's absolutely bucketing down here. Sorry about the blurry picture- that's water on the lens. And that bit that looks like a river leading to the dam- um, that's actually the lawn. It's coming down faster than it can flow away, and has been for three days now.

Where I live, this isn't unusual- I live in a wetland area, and we get flooded in at least once a year. To survive in a place like this, you really need to understand water and have respect for its power, or you'll find yourself doing stupid and dangerous things like swimming in floodwater, or driving through floodwater, or underestimating the power of a current.

There's a bridge near my house where a young man drowned some years ago, because he had no respect for the power of water. His car was washed off the bridge during a flood because he didn't understand that the water didn't care that he wanted to get where he was going, and it would always win a directional battle against a car. That car just bobbed up like a toy boat, and over the rail it went.

I didn't think twice about that aspect of things when I moved here, because I was brought up with a healthy respect for the power of water from early childhood. I know quite a lot about water, really, and it all stems from the way I was allowed to play with it when I was a child. I love water- but I also fear it, in a very rational way.

And as I stood in the bucketing rain today with a shovel, clearing channels so the water could run away instead of being trapped where it'll kill the grass my animals need to survive, I thought about how some children won't be allowed to play with water because of parental fear, or because of lack of opportunity in an increasingly over-regulated environment. And I thought, that's worse than sad; that's actually dangerous.

I was brought up in a time when children weren't usually wrapped in cotton wool. My grandparents had a wonderful country property which included a gully with a permanent creek running through it, where my brother and cousins and I would catch yabbies (little crayfish) by tying some meat on the end of a string and ever-so-carefully pulling the string up while the unsuspecting yabby gripped the meat with his claws. The trick was to go terribly slowly till you got him to just below the surface, then lean out over the water and quickly yank him up and over onto the rocks into the bucket, before he could let go in surprise.

Many a time we had a yabby let go midway and start scurrying back to the water over the rocks; then it was a matter of grabbing him in exactly the right spot where the nippers meet the body, so he couldn't reach back over his head and pinch your hand. That was another learning experience! Talk about facing your fears- you only had a moment to decide if you were brave enough.

That's me, with my brother and my aunt holding the yabby. (By the way, we always let them go- the game was to count them, not eat them!)

What did I learn from playing at that creek? How not to fall in, for starters. Before I got anywhere near the edges of the creek over the deep holes where the yabbies lived, I was allowed to play in the shallows and shown how to look at the surface of a rock to see if it was mossy or wet. I learned by doing- slipping in the shallow sections of the creek and falling on my backside, getting up bruised and wet, while my father or his sister, my aunt, looked on and said "I told you so". I learned to look for flat, dry, clean rocks, to look where I was going, to test a rock before I put my weight on it. When you've fallen on your tush enough times, you start to listen when your elders tell you things, because they were right before- you've proved it yourself.

And so you don't lean out too far off the rock, or you sit down on the edge, and you wear sensible shoes, and you don't go down there alone. You keep an eye out for each other.

Eventually when we were a little older, my brother and I were allowed to go to the creek unaccompanied by an adult. Neither of us could swim, but we'd learned our lessons and we were trusted to be sensible. Neither of us ever fell into a deep section of that creek. We'd learned to assess the risks and be careful, by playing freely in the company of our 'spotters'.

Today as I was digging those channels, I remembered the other thing we used to do down there- build dams in the sandy sections, and try to divert the water by digging little channels just like the ones I dug today. We were experimenting with the power of water. I can still remember how much effort it took to build a decent dam, and then how effortlessly the water would wash it away. The water was completely ruthless, and if it couldn't go straight ahead it'd go round the edges till the whole thing was eroded. It was fascinating to watch.

Same with the channels we built- unless you've tried to divert water, you'll always underestimate its strength and destructive ability. I thought of that recently when the local council spent weeks (and heaven only knows how much money) rebuilding a stretch of road that'd fallen into the river on a bend. It'd been open again for less than a week when the water had its way, and the whole new section toppled back into the river.

I'm no engineer, but I would have moved the road the first time round. If water wants to cut a corner, then there's no way of stopping it. I learned that when I was 5, through play. Why didn't the engineers know that? Didn't they play with water when they were young?

If you've never had the opportunity to play with water like that, how can you possibly appreciate that a human being versus a river in flood, or a strong current, or a rip at the beach, is a competition that's going to end in grief? If you've always had your hand held near the creek, how can you know what's safe? If you've never experimented, how can you learn?

And so if the only thing you remember about water and children is that a child can drown in less than two inches of water, you're missing something. Children need to play with water, and all the better if it's wild water like the water in my grandparents' creek; you actually can't learn very much about water in a swimming pool. They need to play with water and try (and fail) to control it, in order to learn respect for its power so they can be safe around it.

And you need to make time to take them there, and spot for them. Not hold their hand- just stay close until they've made enough little mistakes to learn for themselves that water is dangerous as well as fun. You honestly can't expect children to stay away from something that's fun, just because you tell them it's dangerous. They have to find that out the hard way. There's no easy way.

I think of the little boy swept out to sea the other day, who'd come from a country where there are no beaches. I think of adults who've met the same fate for the same reason, because they have no experience of water's power. The longer you leave it to let your children fall down, slip, get wet and dirty, maybe even find themselves with their head under the water unexpectedly, the greater the likelihood there'll be an accident you can't control later on.

Let them play with water. Be there. Their lives may depend on it.