Yesterday was my last day as a toddler teacher for the foreseeable future. I've had my own classroom for almost two years (my anniversary was next month) and for almost the entire extent of that time, had a core group of kids that I stayed with. Some kids added, some dropped, and a small number of them transitioned up, but there were a couple kids (D, A, I, B, N, etc) who were with me almost the entire time I was at my center. (I would include W, but he moved to another state this past June and it about broke my heart.)
The job has been exhausting, and challenging, and incredibly, painfully, difficult. It has also been incredibly rewarding, forcing me to be inventive, creative, and flexible. I've had to adapt myself to situations, work with teachers and assistants and directors whose views are in direct opposition to my own, and become frighteningly comfortable with the human body. (Thanks for your legendary poops, B. I mean that.) The connections I have made with the families have enriched my life in ways I never expected and I look forward to maintaining the relationships I've created these past two years.
As a toddler teacher, I've been asked many times, "But, like, what do you actually teach them?!" And I always give the same answer: how to be human. They know how to walk when they come to my classroom, but they have no idea how far they can go. They are starting to speak, but they've yet to learn the power of words to build or destroy. As they develop a sense of independence, learn the bounds of their autonomy, and figure out social skills like sharing and apologizing, I'm the person responsible for helping them. For modeling these skills. I'm certainly not perfect.
Some weeks, the toddlers teach me more than I teach them. Here are some of the lessons I've learned while I've been with these incredible, bright, important children.
1. People are like oobleck.
Surely, you've mixed cornstarch and water together. If not, you should do it right now. Oobleck has bizarre properties, existing in both a liquid and a solid state simultaneously. That means that when you squeeze the oobleck in your closed fist, it gets hard and crumbly. When you relax your hand, it turns into a viscous liquid that will drizzle out between your fingers.
How does this relate to people? I've seen it in my personal relationships and I've seen it in my interactions with the children compared with my coworkers'. If you try to hold a person, sure, they might not get away, but it's unlikely it'll be a pleasant experience for anyone. They will turn hard and begin to fall apart. When you let them go, when you open your palms and leave them to do as they will, sure, they might run away, slip right through your fingers, and make a mess -- but maybe they'll stay. Either way, isn't it better to not cramp your hand trying to hold onto them, and take your chances?
2. Bubbles solve everything.
No, seriously. If you have nine children fighting over one toy, children who want binkies, children transitioning into a center environment after two years alone with Mommy, or even a staff who hates each other -- there's a simple answer that never fails. Bubbles. Lots of damn bubbles.
I'm pretty sure it's universal. You put the leaders of all the world's nations into a room, starting blowing bubbles, and see how long it takes for everyone to develop a more... democratic spirit. And start getting along. There are always enough bubbles for everyone.
3. Some people build; some people destroy.
Don't let these people build lego towers together. Seriously.
4. Everyone has unique needs.
You can try as hard as you want to create a fair and equal classroom, but you're going to learn, fair and equal are not the same things. Some kids get potty trained at 2 and some wait until they're almost 4. Some kids need to be held when they're sad or when they fall down or when someone new comes into the classroom and some kids, well, they'd like their space, thank you very much. Techniques that distract or deter one child will not work for another, and sometimes, it won't work on the same kids twice. In order to meet nine unique sets of needs every day, you need to be creative, adaptive, flexible, and for god's sake, patient!
5. Everyone needs the exact same thing.
We all just want to have our feelings and experiences recognized as valid. You might think it's not a big deal that Suzie just took the purple shovel and I should stop crying, but how difficult can it be when you think, "I am master of my universe," only to learn that Suzie is master of the one thing you want RIGHT. NOW. THIS. VERY. SECOND. MORE. THAN. AIR. Kids -- human beings -- respond much better to hearing, "I know what you're going through must be difficult; how can I help you to feel better about it?" than they do to, "Stop crying; it's just a shovel. Here, take the red one." "Stop crying, he's just a boy" does not go over nearly so well as, "Ashley, I know you love him and I know this impossible situation has left you frustrated, drained, and hurt. And I know you recognize how impossible this is. Do you want to go get ice cream and talk about Frank Turner?"
Likewise, people need to have their efforts recognized, especially when they are not doing well. I had one child who would not stop a particular behavior pattern that was destructive to social relationships and the classroom in general. It wasn't an intentional thing that happened, and you could see the upset and the hurt every time this child failed. My co-teacher's method of behavior management was to keep the child at her feet, to force this child to sit out and miss the rest of the day, all the while lecturing the child about why this behavior was undesirable. My approach, when I took control of these situations, was much more "bleeding heart." I tended to praise the child's hard work, "I can see how difficult it is for you to control yourself, and I know how hard you're working to do better. I'm really proud of you for that, but next time, I want you to get me when you need help." Then I would either sit with the child or give the child space until the child calmed their body down and felt ready to rejoin the group. When the damage was particularly bad, my co-teacher had a tendency to rub the child's nose in it, to say, "LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE. YOU'VE DONE THIS TERRIBLE THING." My reaction was like this:
Me: Do you see this? How did that happen?
Child: [explanation of how damage occurred]
Me: How can we fix this?
Child: [offers solution and apology]
We would then carry out any needed maintenance to "solve" the problem and "reverse the damage."
Over time, the child refused to be alone with my former co-teacher, screaming any time diaper changes rolled around and refusing to even greet my co-teacher. The tension between them was so immense that the child is now going to a new center. I'm not trying to say that I am perfect, and I certainly have reacted to children with frustration, sometimes in a less than forgiving mood. Sometimes I'm tired or I'm distracted or I'm upset about something else. But I think what I learned to do very well was to acknowledge the validity of everyone's individual experiences, and their hard work. It's all any of us really want, and even though it looks like a nice life to us, we must all remember the words of the great French singer, Jordie...
"Dur dur d'etre bebe." (It's tough to be a baby!)
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