tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4496648343511815572024-02-18T20:52:34.872-08:00Ms. Amy Claire: One Teacher's Quest for Creative Community BuildingAmy Clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03641873859600824498noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-449664834351181557.post-54869944238574560212014-05-02T11:42:00.000-07:002014-05-09T16:49:32.865-07:00The Friendship CanAfter a day long training on teaching social and emotional skills to young children one of the facilitators approached me after the course and offered me the "friendship can" she had made as a teaching tool, for encouraging friendship. I gladly accepted. The can sat on my desk for weeks. I finally pulled it out recently with the intent of trying it at circle time, to just see what would happen.<br />
<br />
Teaching a mixed ability class while wonderful and ideally what I strive for as a teacher, is not always easy. Full Inclusion doesn't actually translate to four and five year old children who are developing friendships, learning to share, communicate and form bonds over shared interests such as Batman and Princesses. The children that are struggling to communicate, who have more significant delays in their skills often end up alone during play, or observing the other children wistfully while the classroom staff try a variety of methods for encouraging interaction and successful socialization. Moments of social success are seen often with the "typically developing" peers. They are aware of their classmates differering abilities but not motivated to reach out to them without adult direction. And this is where something as simple as a "friendship can" has made all the difference.<br />
<br />
Each child puts their name in the can at the start of our afternoon meeting. We do the mandatory preschool routines of the calendar and a discussion about the weather. Each child is offered the opportunity to share an idea or thought with the class about their lives. Sometimes the discussion is cohesive, sometimes it isn't. Everyone is however offered a turn to talk. Then I ask them about what it means to be a good friend. How can we be friendly to each other? How can we be kind and respectful? "Don't take toys!" "Don't kick!" "Don't say mean words." While rudimentary, these are in fact exactly what it means to be a good friend. I close the circle by randomly drawing two names from the can, and those two children are then encouraged to discuss what they would like to do together for the next several minutes of class. The children have learned to greet peers they ordinarily would never choose as a play partner, and to share materials, space, and ideas with each other.<br />
<br />
The classroom itself during this time of deliberate partnership is incredibly calm. All the children are busy, engaged, practicing empathy, communication and are learning to appreciate their differences. For a child called Alejandro, who almost never speaks and typically always plays alone there has been a significant shift in his affect. He looks happy, he is laughing out loud. When Daniel sidled up to him while Alejandro was cooking in the dramatic play area in the face of two other peers attempting to take over the space and the game and said to him, "I'm going to make the coffee while you do the cooking." Alejandro felt seen, heard, and appreciated by someone he'd never had the opportunity to communicate with before. Daniel on the other hand, practiced a social skill he'd not yet used, looking out for someone else, being protective, loyal, and empathetic.<br />
<br />
The "friendship can" does not always produce a perfect pairing. Charlie was devastated that he was paired with Alina instead of Austin with whom he had bonded the day before over a shared love of Mario and Luigi. He sat next to Alina at the art table and cried for twenty minutes. I told him that he could calm down, say hello to Alina, make a picture next to her and then I would know he was ready to go play with Austin. He took a few deep breaths, got himself a piece of paper, and began to draw Mario (of course). With prompting he said "hello" and "goodbye" to Alina who was busily engaged in learning to write "Happy Birthday to her mom. The next day when Charlie came to afternoon meeting he sat right next to Alina and said " I hope I pick Alina today! She's on my team!"<br />
<br />
After several minutes of play together, sometimes ten, sometimes thirty depending on the activity level of the classroom my staff and I let the children know they can say goodbye and thank you to their friend and choose another peer to play with if they are ready. More often than not I will hear, "Nah Teacher I'm gonna stay with her today."<br />
<br />
The change in the social atmosphere in my classroom is palpable. Happier, more productive children who feel good about the ways in which they are learning to be good friends. The Social Emotional Trainer after observing in my classroom recently suggested that I rig the can, to intentionally pair higher functioning children with lower functioning peers. I told her I can't. Part of the beauty of the name drawing is the children watch me close my eyes, they know it's random, they know I believe that each and every one of them has something to contribute to the other, to the group as a whole. No matter how difficult or challenging someone can be to play with, there is always a way, an opportunity to learn something new about oneself and about someone else. Now more than any other time, is when to learn and to teach these social skills.<br />
<br />
"<i> We can provide our children with opportunities for play with their peers. We can offer them suggestions for compromise, and we can intervene when necessary. But our greatest gift may be the examples we set in our own friendships. It is from us, I believe, that our children are likely to learn best." - Making Friends by Fred Rogers 1987</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Amy Clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03641873859600824498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-449664834351181557.post-49528813727553153622014-02-25T17:11:00.002-08:002014-02-25T17:12:08.194-08:00A little noteI'm not an artist, but I'd like every child in my class to think of themselves as one. There are certain foods I do not like (canned tuna fish for instance)- but I want each child who sits down at the table with me to feel brave enough to try something new that they did not like at all yesterday. I hated math as a student, gave up on my own number sense when I was six, and yet I think about math and how to incorporate problem solving and mathematical reasoning into meaningful play activities so these children will feel competent when asked to solve word problems in high school. I am not a scientist, but I'd like to instill an awe of the natural world and intrinsic motivation to understand how things work, are made, die and are recreated in new forms. No, I am not an artist. I am a woman, a sister, a partner, a step parent, an aunt, a friend, and a preschool teacher who believes that when a child creates anything out of paper, dirt, twigs, tape or air it should be validated, celebrated and hung on the wall.<br />
<br />
I will provide the materials my students need, to experiment, to play, to create, to begin the life long process of discovering the world and how they fit into it. I will model open, honest, and non biased communication and conflict resolution skills to the best of my ability. I will continue to remind children that if someone does not want to play? it doesn't mean they aren't your friend and it's okay to play alone or with someone else for a little while. Sometimes, you can be your own best company.<br />
<br />
I deeply respect the childhood of these young people. I am grateful and I am so very lucky to come to work everyday and to sit at the circle with fifteen four and five year olds. If you're happy and you know it?<br />
<br />
Clap your hands.<br />
<br />
<br />Amy Clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03641873859600824498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-449664834351181557.post-4834482989814459892013-11-20T21:22:00.002-08:002013-11-20T21:22:50.195-08:00Tea with MurrayDear Murray,<br />
<br />
On the occasion of your retirement from the Bank Street Family Center where you have worked tirelessly and passionately as the Family Support Coordinator (for more years than I even know) I'd like to dedicate this blog post to you, your work, your commitment to children, families, and teachers. An ironic choice I know, as you have confessed to me on more than one occasion that you do not read my blog, as it's too technical. Alas, I will write it and make sure a hard copy makes it's way into your hands. Your career, your gifts to me as a teacher and a person deserve a public recognition, a standing ovation, a high tea with scones and real butter.<br />
<br />
The first time I met you, was my first year, my first month in New York City. The role you served was my academic advisor, professor and conference group supervisor. You were the first person to question constructively my teaching (granted, it was brand new). You asked me why I didn't do circle time with two year olds... and pointed out the theoretical and developmental reasons why it was beneficial. In California, at Mills College, we didn't do circle time. As a young professional I had never questioned what I had learned thus far. You were the first person to teach me, that teaching is an ongoing learning experience, one in which there is always room for discovery, for newness, for making mistakes and for trying again. For this, I am grateful. Circle time has become for me as a teacher a sacred experience ( I am in California again after all, "sacred" is the kind of word we use here). Each child has a voice, a place, a part in the classroom community that is unique to the particular group of children I serve. When I was teaching young children with Autism, circle time was more than just a time together to sing songs: it was a teaching tool that encouraged language, communication, reciprocity, joy and a social experience not possible in other curriculum activities. For this? I thank you.<br />
<br />
I thank you for making room in your busy schedule to support me when I was having difficulties communicating with a new boss. When I was the director of a school that quite literally flooded? You made time again every week to hear me out, to provide a sounding board, to provide care and support to keep me afloat. You also made me tea.<br />
<br />
When we were colleagues working together, collaborating to support the children, families and teachers of Room One? I can't think of anything I have enjoyed more in my professional life.<br />
<br />
If there was one moment that I feel I learned just from watching you, it was the first time we did a block group together in the loft room. It is a rare gift to see toddlers, to enjoy toddlers, to know how to play with toddlers. But it is pure magic to bring a group of three ego centric, toddlers together in such a way that feels seamless, genuine, and ultimately extends the learning and feelings of efficacy for the children present.<br />
<br />
As we have become friends over these many years, I have always admired how much you love your work. How deeply you respect and fight for those you hold in your mind.<br />
<br />
Murray you set limits for me when I expected to be able to rewrite a paper that I had not gotten a good grade on when I was twenty-four. You encouraged me to not only survive my first year in New York (hanging from the edge of a glacier by my finger nails)... but to thrive. I find it interesting that I can't remember saying goodbye to you when I moved back to California three years ago to continue the work we both treasure on this far west coast. Sometimes it's hard to say Goodbye. Sometimes there are not enough words, or feelings, or time to adequately thank someone for all they are and all they have done.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the best example was when my own nephew at fifteen months of age was visiting from California. He pulled a hot cup of tea onto his body and was rushed to the hospital with third degree burns. When I got the call at the Family Center from my sister, you encouraged me to go. And hours later? You were there too. In the burn unit, showing up, being present, holding myself, my nephew, my family in your mind. You told my sister that he was okay. You could see he was responding to their care, that he was expressing his pain and discomfort as a typically developing toddler should. He has no scars, no memory of this traumatic event. Someday I will tell him you were there, and why it mattered.<br />
<br />
Murray. You are a gift to my life. A gift to children. A gift to parents. A gift to teachers. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.<br />
<br />
There's some room in your schedule now. California needs to see you. I promise to make you tea, and serve you real butter with your scones.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlXl0NuIGPETe-XkkL-gXH91ZiYU67fJ5XlNpmYXCURtkSuOtVU5H9L_-yfQv5Pmj7T5D7XZwN6dLcV2lVbEVNWH_P3KRaqMXFoYRyoXmrlmeXRH2Lv3ZQ4mtSb6QdJXpu0Lv7PqwO4Snh/s1600/murray.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlXl0NuIGPETe-XkkL-gXH91ZiYU67fJ5XlNpmYXCURtkSuOtVU5H9L_-yfQv5Pmj7T5D7XZwN6dLcV2lVbEVNWH_P3KRaqMXFoYRyoXmrlmeXRH2Lv3ZQ4mtSb6QdJXpu0Lv7PqwO4Snh/s1600/murray.jpeg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
Murray, Watching toddlers at play in Room One, Bank Street Family Center 2007.<br />
<br />Amy Clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03641873859600824498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-449664834351181557.post-10761974237901177392013-10-19T09:00:00.000-07:002013-10-26T08:55:00.679-07:00A Soap Box of SortsHere is the challenge... in a play based curriculum how does one not neglect specific needs of specific children? Are we doing our jobs truly, by not intervening when we notice difficulties that arise? Are we sending these preschoolers off to Kindergarten (who have been so blessed to PLAY their entire childhood thus far with very little adult direction or co-construction) without more structured experiences... are we doing right by them entirely?<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I do feel that children learn through play. No question about it. The explorations of the world start there, putting an interesting object in the mouth in infancy, banging things together, throwing, crawling, touch, taste, pretend... these are the the building blocks of learning. But so is the relationship between the caregiver and the child. If there were a soap box about primary care, in an Infant Toddler Program, I would stand on it now. If there were ever an argument for keeping infants and toddlers with the same teachers and peers for the first three years of their lives, it would be now. A play based curriculum without the foundational care of a primary relationship? exists for me, philosophically speaking, in a vacuum. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You can't have one without the other.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So this is the dilemma. These children of mine range in age from 3-5 years old. They need different things from me as their teacher. The environment is set up for them to play, and to play well. Procedures for how to use materials and toys are deeply ingrained in these children who have grown up in this school, progressing from one classroom to the next based on age and the achievement of developmental milestones. They know what to do, do they know how to be? Sometimes yes. The push for independence is high, the lack of interdependence is astonishing. The role of the teacher is viewed, in my experiences thus far as something remote. One stands, guards, sets up the environment, talks to the children when they need re directing. And yet, it feels empty. These kids, like all the kids I've ever taught in the last fourteen years of my career, need an adult attachment figure while they are apart from their parents. It doesn't matter if the child is four months old, or four years old. It looks different, it feels different, yet these children need that co-regulation partner the same way an infant does. Children learn literally in the context of their earliest relationship. An adults caregiving style, and skill, the bond between the adult and the child, quite literally affects and maps how the early brain develops. It isn't play, it's relationship. Babies and children learn to play when they feel safe, when they are cared for, nurtured, and responded to. They venture out, they explore, they return to the safe base of the adult when needed. Some children if they can't regulate their emotions, their bodies, (something established in infancy in the context of the primary caregiving relationship) get to the pre-k class and don't know what to do.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A four year old girl freezes up every time a child says something she doesn't like, every time she can't complete a puzzle she started, every time she needs to say something and can't quite find the words. She stands in front me with large eyes filled with tears about to overflow, incapable of asking for what she needs. I see her inability to regulate herself, her feelings, her fears, her desires in tandem with her inability to communicate. So what is my role? Primary Care. I can't wear this child, it would be developmentally in appropriate. But I can provide the safe base she needs, give her the words she is searching for, and the faith in herself to figure out a complicated puzzle. Without me caring for her, providing a relational context, she cannot, will not access the rich play environment set up for her and her peers. She's four. And this is an opportunity to talk about the role of the teacher in such an established, respected, and cherished school for children not as the only the facilitator, the person who stands at the gate, but also the partner in learning for both children, and their parents. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Play is the thing, but it is not the only thing. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Amy Clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03641873859600824498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-449664834351181557.post-83499102846136348092013-09-21T10:25:00.000-07:002013-09-21T10:31:27.505-07:00Step Lady. A year ago things were different. Very different. I was living alone in Oaktown. I went out every week with my single friend Betty. My grandmother had just passed away, my second niece born, and my best girl was about to get married. All of these events wrapped up in an immensely single red bow. My best girl promised me that if I was still single within a few months she'd move me into their spare room so I wouldn't have to live alone any longer. I mean, what other option would there have been if I wasn't already a happy cat lady? I liked her cats at least.<br />
<br />
The plans always change. No matter what. We make choices, sometimes without thinking, seeing or knowing. But we do. My romantic ideals of being married young, having kids young all changed without me knowing the second I stopped going to church, moved to New York City, pursued an education and a career in Early Childhood Special Ed. I made these choices, and have not regretted a single step on that path. I mean, I could have done without that year the preschool I was directing flooded and all the kids got lice for three months... but such is life. I didn't shave my head and looking through hair with popsicle sticks became a consistent dramatic play theme in my classroom.<br />
<br />
So a year ago.... I didn't know I was about to meet The Tim. No one knew. I existed in a state of wondering. Longing? Missing people who were long gone, working in a classroom that demanded my heart and soul, and as it turned out, blood. No reciprocity to balance the scales. Not yet. I grew weary of it. Hit that proverbial wall that one only knows they've hit when they run smack into it and fall down. Should I have been wearing a helmet? Perhaps. But things shifted with all the life events of those I love. I shifted too with the death of my Grandmother, the birth of my niece, the wedding of my best girl. Time to own the choices I've made to be a really good teacher, to stay single, to have chosen the elusive men who weren't gonna be there for me in the long run. Maybe they wanted to- it doesn't really matter does it? Because one Sunday almost a year ago I met The Tim. At my favorite restaurant, eating my favorite food. He was wearing red shoes, a quick wit and he was really into my big teeth.<br />
<br />
This isn't a post about teaching. It's about how life changes to make all things possible when we most need it. At 20, 25, 28, 30, all these birthdays have come and gone and my "plans" for a family with them. And now I have one. It's not what I planned, or expected. I have The Tim everyday. I have his kids, half the week, and I adore them. They are not mine, but I am theirs. Plus, Step Lady sounds much more elegant than "my dad's younger girlfriend," Don't you think?<br />
<br />
<br />Amy Clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03641873859600824498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-449664834351181557.post-27651445671933621622013-08-06T12:48:00.000-07:002013-08-06T13:09:15.719-07:00A Good Enough GoodbyeSometimes there's no adequate way to end something, to say something that "sums" it up, or gracefully ties an appropriate knot.<br />
<br />
The last days of school are a blur, they were over a month ago now, almost two. A visit to my home, to my city knocked the senses back into me. Daily yoga, naps, an attempt at reading a novel, several workers comp Psych visits, an MRI, Check ups and finally? A brain so relaxed that an appointment has been missed. I see myself in the mirror and I wonder, how did I get through those last months of school? I was injured, I was scared, I was anxious and I had a lot of work to do.<br />
<br />
Sometimes theres no adequate way to say "Thank you", no words deep or wide enough to encompass the gratitude for those who made me returning to my classroom last January possible. My three Para's, my team, my hands, eyes, arms and voices. They were my steady beating heart in the midst of my anxiety and disequilibrium. These women did more than rise to the occasion, they made me being there possible.<br />
<br />
After these several months of running on adrenaline, I am finally recalbirating back to my daily life. I will not miss the dread of a phone call from HR, my Principal illegally telling me to only make workers comp Dr. appointments, at the end of the school day (which I always did). I will not miss colleagues questioning why it's developmentally appropriate for young children to be resting at the end of their day, questioning what the children could possibly be learning in my classroom, a play based, child centered environment. No, I will not miss these things.<br />
<br />
But I will miss the children. I'll miss hearing Alice say to herself "It's okay", even when it wasn't. I'll miss her saying my name spontaneously without prompting. I'll miss little Edward's joy as he barreled into Alice to greet her each morning. I'll miss the look on Lightnings face while he gleefully played chase, safely in the classroom without eloping into the world beyond. I will miss Francis earnestly requesting "Old Mac Donald", and starting to cry each and every morning when I asked him how he felt, only to see him smiling a few seconds later. I'll miss watching Sara blooming into a successful Kindergarten student who can paint mountains, make friends and speak her mind without hesitation or worry. I'll miss circle time, watching my kids come together daily to sit together and participate together in song, learning, in community. I'll miss lunch time, one child singing to another the words to Mr. Roger's song "It's You I Like", and the other child singing it back to him with eye contact, with intent, in shared meaning.<br />
<table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="background-color: #ffcc66; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, seriff;"><tbody>
<tr><td bgcolor="#ffffff" style="color: #9a0101; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 17px; padding: 20px;">It's you I like,<br />
It's not the things you wear,<br />
It's not the way you do your hair--<br />
But it's you I like.<br />
The way you are right now,<br />
The way down deep inside you--<br />
Not the things that hide you,<br />
Not your toys--<br />
They're just beside you.<br />
<br />
But it's you I like--<br />
Every part of you,<br />
Your skin, your eyes, your feelings<br />
Whether old or new.<br />
I hope that you'll remember<br />
Even when you're feeling blue<br />
That it's you I like,<br />
It's you yourself,<br />
It's you, it's you I like.</td></tr>
<tr><td bgcolor="#ffffff" style="color: #9a0101; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11px; line-height: 17px; padding-left: 20px;">It's You I Like<br />
By Fred M. Rogers<br />
© 1970</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I do not wonder or question or doubt what these children have learned by being in my classroom. They are as a whole, more flexible, more adaptable, better able to make transitions, make friends and they are better communicators because I and my team were on the floor, in their faces reflecting, talking, and laughing with them.<br />
<br />
I say goodbye knowing that it wasn't my best, I probably should have been wearing a helmet and a hazmat suit, but it was more than good enough.<br />
<br />
And I am grateful. There are quite literally Blue Skies ahead.<br />
<br />
XO<br />
<br />
"Goodbye Miss Amy! Good luck and be careful not to bump your head!" - Max, age four and attending Full Inclusion Kindergarten this coming August.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7aBZE5lfcVaVpBVtNsEYSuMJobtQb9WmdpsYwkP8r6jNyg1o3RHUfMl_4mMPEYZ6evWge_uMDaqJH_Kt13tra1Xd4RnXUSZu-WmcX-Sa4pxHL1afOOFNbqAgN54ruEx6Dha3StXRDvBV2/s1600/IMG_6268.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7aBZE5lfcVaVpBVtNsEYSuMJobtQb9WmdpsYwkP8r6jNyg1o3RHUfMl_4mMPEYZ6evWge_uMDaqJH_Kt13tra1Xd4RnXUSZu-WmcX-Sa4pxHL1afOOFNbqAgN54ruEx6Dha3StXRDvBV2/s1600/IMG_6268.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Amy Clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03641873859600824498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-449664834351181557.post-27293982121694920732013-02-23T14:19:00.000-08:002013-02-23T19:28:45.264-08:00The Long Walk to School A year ago Vernon had just turned four and would not walk into the classroom. Every morning his parents pushed, pulled and carried him into the room only to leave him on the floor where he fussed dramatically at my feet until they left begging him to please 'be good, have a good day at school." On one occasion Vernon plopped himself onto the sidewalk in the parking lot, refusing to budge. Dad called mom from home, and mom joined dad on the sidewalk begging, pleading and attempting to bribe Vernon to please just get up and walk. A bystander alerted me to the drama unfolding in the parking lot and I walked outside to find Vernon on the pavement, rocking back and forth crying, his parents helpless on either side of him. I crouched down next to him and said to him firmly, calmly "Vernon, we really need you in school. Time to stand up and walk with me." "Okay, Miss. Amy,"replied Vernon. He stood up, grabbed my outstretched hand and waved goodbye to his parents.<br />
<br />
It is a long walk sometimes isn't it? I think about that moment, all three adults surrounding him on the pavement in that parking lot. Two concerned, loving, committed parents bargaining and worried that their child would not be able to do the very simplest act of walking through a door. But it isn't simple. My request and his positive response was not magic, it was a response to a clear expectation. As an educator, with emotional investment clearly but also with objectivity I know, I believe that Vernon was capable, is capable of a great many things starting with the walk from the car to the door of the classroom. I have set the expectations very high, and because Vernon knows what my expectations are, and he knows I believe in him, he takes risks. He stands up, and walks into the classroom ready to learn, to let go a little bit of his worry, his need to control, his fear that the world might be too overwhelming, because sometimes it is.<br />
<br />
I see Vernon's parents and I respect them. I understand that their concern, anxiety and their disappointment that their toddler, their precious baby was not learning to talk as expected, was not relating socially to others like his big sister did motivated them to seek medical help, educational intervention. Their worry became a fiercly protective bubble around their son, a constant list of what he cannot do runs in a loop in their minds because they care, because they are scared for him and will fight for him. No, I do not blame them for this. And when I sit across a table from them and tell them, "I want to mainstream your son in Kindergarten next year because I have every confidence that he will succeed", they look to the list of things he cannot do and ask when.<br />
<br />
My answer is now. Vernon is five. Each morning he walks independently and proudly into the classroom, happily greets me, his teacher, his peers and waves goodbye to his father. He settles himself into an activity next to his peers, his friends. He has internalized the routines of the day, he assists me in leading circle time. He comments on his friends feelings in context. He knows how to play. And each time he says goodbye to me when he leaves the room and I have to work on the computer he says to me, "Goodbye Ms. Amy! Good luck and have fun!"<br />
<br />
I encourage Vernon's parents to believe in their son's ability to succeed, because he has shown us that he can. If I believe, if his parents believe in his success? That truly is more than 90% of the battle. Sometimes successes come slow, others more quickly. Sometimes when we look for big changes, we miss the small, subtle miracles of minute to minute growth. I missed almost three months of Vernon's life. I was not there, and when I returned I found a boy who had not only met many of my hopes for him, but he has exceeded them. I want him to have the opportunity to learn to generalize the skills he has learned in my classroom and in speech therapy in other places in his world. Trying new things, being brave, sticking with something difficult and new like a sport, or learning to read... He can do these things. He has learned to make friends, he has learned to separate and reunite with his family, he has learned to have conversations that are meaningful and relevant instead of constantly scripting his favorite TV shows. He is a kid who can.<br />
<br />
When Vernon's parents told me a year ago "We always say at home that Ms. Amy is so strict, but so loving," I took that as a compliment. I raised the level of expectation for them too. I challenged them to spend more time reading and playing with Vernon, and less time allowing him to watch television. I've asked them to sign him up for an organzied sport to expose him to other, typically developing kids of his age. I've asked them to believe that their son, is strong enough to pull himself up off the ground, take an outstretched hand and walk to his next adventure.<br />
<br />
Soon I will be saying Goodbye to Vernon when the school year ends. He will know, and maybe not understand that the classroom he enters next Fall will be different, more challenging, new faces for him to memorize, a new teacher for him to build a partnership with. I will wave to Vernon and I will say to him "Goodbye Vernon. Good luck and more than anything? Have Fun!" I will tell his parents the same.<br />
<br />
<br />Amy Clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03641873859600824498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-449664834351181557.post-12826316256435582212013-02-11T17:38:00.001-08:002013-02-11T17:40:25.640-08:00From the Cradle to the Classroom<b><i>"All of us, from the cradle to the grave are happiest when life is organized as a series of excursions, long or short, from the secure base provided by our attachment figure(s)"- John Bowlby 1998 </i></b><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The day the towers fell I was a twenty- four year old preschool teacher on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. We were told to keep away from the windows, to keep the children indoors and wait for their parents to arrive. In my classroom all of the parents who worked in the Trade Center were late that day, or had a meeting somewhere else. A father was missing for several hours as he wandered the streets of Manhattan in shock.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I walked home to my nest of friends, feasting on provisions (primarily cheese). We sat around our apartment on West 108th street and watched the television in disbelief at the havoc and horror of what was occurring downtown. We could smell the ash, our eyes were thick with it. Few cell phone calls made it out, the ones that made it in were treasured. Returning to work for several months after I operated in a state of mild panic. I struggled with a very large question, "How can I provide a secure base for the children in my care, when I myself do not feel safe?" When I knew for certain I was not? This day, made me a New Yorker perhaps more than any other single moment spent in that great city. Family was forged, survival a common thread... grief and loss in the air, and in our blood. As days, months and years passed equilibrium returned. I began to feel effective again, constant. A stable provider of quality Early Childhood Care. And now, many years later I find myself shell shocked on very different ground, but asking the same question, "How can I provide a safe base for the children in my care when I am not in fact safe, at all?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I made it to last Friday feeling triumphant in my beginning re mastery of my classroom. Gentleness with self, awareness of others all falling into place once more. Seeing again who my children are and the best way to get them where they need to go. And then Friday happened. One of my assistant teachers was out sick, and no substitute was sent in to replace her. I was short staffed. I felt the anxiety and panic begin to quicken my pulse, my words were sharper, my patience scattered. Hyper vigilance, cortisol over riding other brain functions as I attempted to remember to breathe, to stay focused, and calm. You see, I cannot teach the way I used to. I cannot be the teacher with eight arms, and eight voices reaching every child at once when needed. I am just one. Delegating as best I can. A child reached up, or rather jumped upon my back from behind. He squeezed my neck and pulled me to the ground. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What has ensued since, a series of frustrating communications with workers comp ( a very special kind of hell), a very sore neck, mid and lower back pain, raging head aches, and fear. Doubt. Anxiety about returning to work tomorrow. In my experiences thus far very little is done on the part of the school district to keep the teachers safe, protected, supported to do their work. Will I be an exception now? Will the absence of my aids be covered so that I am not short staffed? Will measures be taken to protect me from bodily harm by impulsive Autistic students?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This is one of those moments when I would like to quit. To say "No More." I want to put my own safety first. I want to stay in my bed tomorrow watching Alias, eating chocolate and lying on the heating pad my mother loaned me. I do not want to put myself in harms way by teaching in my own classroom. But I will. I will stay away from the windows. I will pretend I have eyes in the back of my head, and I will ask for the support that all teachers, not just special education teachers deserve. It is important to feel safe, to be safe, to provide safety. From the cradle to the classroom, this is a non negotiable right, the safety to learn, to be protected in order to thrive, to grow, and to provide the highest quality education possible. Tomorrow however, I am going to show up. And this will need to be enough. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Amy Clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03641873859600824498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-449664834351181557.post-4619106979699258002013-02-07T20:48:00.001-08:002013-02-07T20:50:05.160-08:00A State of Imperfection “Love isn't a state of perfect caring. It is an active noun like
struggle. To love someone is to strive to accept that person exactly the
way he or she is, right here and now.”
<br />
―
<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/32106.Fred_Rogers">Fred Rogers</a>,
<i>
<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/713675">The World According to Mister Rogers: Important Things to Remember</a>
</i><br />
<br />
Finding grace in the imperfection... finding gentleness in the shifting sands...being comfortable when one is afraid... releasing guilt for time not spent... rebuilding trust in the face of anger...seeing a child now, accepting a child now, and facing my own new limitations as a teacher... No, love isn't perfect. This situation is far from perfect, the return to a classroom left abruptly after that swift kick to the head many months ago. Everything has changed since then. We have all struggled and have arrived in this present moment. Children, parents, teachers, and me.<br />
<br />
I am changed. I stand in my classroom observing the children I have not seen since October. They are taller. Some of them are more engaged, productive, they have made friends. Others are more withdrawn, anxious, rigid in their play and behaviors. There is new "artwork" on the walls, teacher cut out trees with snowflakes the children were instructed to shake silver glitter onto glue, tiny caterpillars all the same. The handmade, haphazard collages I had posted so proudly are long gone. The schedule is the same. The children know what to expect and when. My assistants have done a phenomenal job at keeping the day moving, bringing the children along safely.<br />
<br />
I notice I am afraid. The child, the Lightning boy who kicked me is one of those regressed. Playing with his back turned to others. Organizing cars, picking up a few letters from an alphabet puzzle, resistant to interaction and other's plans. I am afraid of being hurt again. He is too tall to be the toddler that he is at heart and in his mind. He is too strong, impulsive, reactive. I am wary.<br />
<br />
The day passes in a haze for me. A cloudy looking glass. I write with my finger on the fog, a series of negative statements: "I cannot be here anymore", " I cannot get hurt again", "I am weak", "I have so much less to offer." The day warms, the fog slowly evaporates hiding my fears from the glass. I try and coach the substitute on how to interact with Lightning, and suddenly I remember. I remember what it means to see him, to know him, to imperfectly figure out loving him. I help him to pick up a marker he has thrown, I praise him for doing so, I continue to shower him with the attention he lacks, and for the first time on this first day he sees me, and I see him. "Hug" he says. And gently, without force or aggression, he hugs me. He smiles at me. "Hug" he says again, smiling, seeing. Healing.<br />
<br />
This is a new beginning. I will continue to struggle with my new limitations, with the feelings of anger, fear and instability. I will stay away from Lightnings feet. I will show up, care for myself and keep trying to see, to accept and like Mr. Rogers, to greet each child openly and warmly and to say "hello neighbor, I'm glad we are together again." And imperfectly together is better than being apart. This much I know.<br />
<br />
<br />Amy Clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03641873859600824498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-449664834351181557.post-72543941013898344732012-12-13T13:06:00.000-08:002012-12-13T13:33:41.058-08:00When Magic Walked<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>
<w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>
<w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/>
<w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/>
</w:Compatibility>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
I've had a lot of time lately for reflection. When one has taught for any length of time, the world view is through the classroom lens. There is little outside of it, and all is because of it. When that changes unexpectedly as it has for me, time becomes a loose, gelatinous circular motion ebbing and flowing. Thoughts of the children I am missing every day pass through my mind leading to thoughts of children I have cared for in the past. Caregiving has essentially been the focus of my career for the past decade and more. Consistent caregiving routines, the thread binding the classroom together. And now... I write this from home. The kick to the head is healing on track, yet it is a very slow track. One that requires the patience and fortitude reserved previously for gloriously tantruming toddlers and stubborn four-year olds with carefully staged agendas of will and rigidity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
And so it goes. I wonder about them. My classroom. How it's running, how the children are faring in my absence. I wonder about my colleagues. How they are faring, how they are feeling, are they getting enough coffee and chocolate? I wonder about my brain. I am happy to hear that my progress is steady, and wonder how much fish oil is too much for reconnecting neurons. A slightly charming result of my brain injury, frequently mixing up words in sentences. "My air is dry and the hair is cold out." Yes, I said that yesterday without qualm. The kids would probably think it funny. And thinking about language makes me think about babies learning to walk, and talk, and make friends. One baby in particular actually. We can call her Magic for the purpose of this tale.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
Magic was just over a year old in 2001, the year her parents adopted her from an orphanage in India and brought her home to New York City. She was one, but Magic looked like a very tall eight -month old. Her head was small, her eyes wide. Long limbs with poor muscle tone. Fragile, somewhat vacant and very clearly adored by her newly adopted parents who hoped the world for her. And so Magic was placed in my care, in my classroom. Some caregiving is intuitive, some is taught. I knew that I needed to wear her. I needed to hold this baby girl, and carry with me at all times. I only put her down to change her diaper. I even managed other children while holding on to her. She ate in my lap. She slept in my arms. And slowly but surely Magic? well she was Magic. Her affect started to change. She started to smile, to coo, to do things that typically developing babies do. She grew adorable cheeks and healthy rolls of fat on her legs. And one day, she walked. She stood up out of my lap and took her miraculous first steps. We applauded. And the only moment better than that was when her parents witnessed her walking for the first time a few weeks later at the school's Thanksgiving Potluck. I've rarely witnessed such joy as I saw on her mother's face as her daughter walked into her arms for the first time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
Magic learned to talk. She called me "Mimi", and liked to wear my ridiculously fancy shoes around the classroom. She made friends. And when she was much older I saw her at a New Years Day party in Manhattan. She may have been seven or eight. I hadn't seen her since she was three. Magic stared at me for about forty minutes intently across the room. She crossed over to me, and without a word sat in my lap pulling my arms around her waist. Magic didn't move for the next half hour. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
And that my friends is the reason why. I likely will never know if in that moment Magic's memory of me was cognitive or if it was an instinctual muscle memory guiding her into my lap. But it doesn't really matter does it... What matters most are these moments of care and connectedness. The thoughts we all have in which we hold each other and our loved ones dear. It's the stuff that healing is made of.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i>She Speaks</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i>She</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i>Grown to mammoth height</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i>Against my chest</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i>Words erupt</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i>Send her</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i>Joyful proud</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i>Into the world beyond</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i>My lap.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<i><o:p> -</o:p>12/01/02</i></div>
<br />
<!--EndFragment-->Amy Clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03641873859600824498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-449664834351181557.post-82093481723164172522012-11-09T10:25:00.000-08:002012-11-20T14:12:36.822-08:00Sometimes You Get Kicked In The Head... And Sometimes You Don't.<i><b>"The development of the social individual proceeds through a series of phases, from the first weeks when there is little awareness even that some stimulation emanates from the outside environment, through a dawning awareness of self and others, to reciprocal relationships, to a responsive partnership in the preschool years, wherein the child has internalized social values and the beginnings of self-control"(Sroufe,1995. p.151).</b></i><br />
<br />
<br />
Sometimes you get kicked in the head... and sometimes you don't. Unfortunately for me, I did get kicked ... by a very strong, playful five-year old boy. His brain you see is making social connections at a rapid rate, connections that are typically (in optimal situations) made in infancy within the context of his primary caregiving relationship. This didn't happen in the way it could have. At five he is learning joint attention, the pleasure of a shared activity, a gaze. He is at the very beginning of what clinicians describe as "mutual" or "co-regulation", that magic dance between adult caregiver and young infant, that quite literally maps the infants brain, teaches the child how to be, how to respond, and ultimately how to regulate his nervous system. He is learning how to modulate arousal in multiple settings outside of his primary relationship. The encouraging thing is that he is five, and this is really happening for him, it's not too late. His affect, his emotional expression has brightened, he is all giggles, and laughs, and constantly seeking positive playful interactions from myself, from my assistants, and in moments? From his peers, which in turn stimulates his cognition, his communication abilities, his sense of self.<br />
<br />
The question has been asked, "Did he mean to kick you?" Yes, yes he did. But it is important to note, that while he was trying to kick me, his intention was not to hurt me. He wasn't anticipating that I would yell, and have to leave the room quickly to put ice on my face. When I returned to the classroom that day, he was watching the door when I opened it, I beckoned to him, and he sat in my lap, with his hand on my face. Precious child, stronger than he knows, and well on his way to modulating his own arousal levels. He wanted a response, but his intention was not to make me leave the room, and as it has happened, to not be at school for several weeks recovering.<br />
<br />
And for me, this has been a very different thing. That one swift kick in the head resulted in what my Doctor calls a "traumatic brain injury." Things are fuzzy. I lose focus quickly, am inundated with consistent headaches, foggy thoughts, clumsiness. I cannot be in noisy, bright places. Noise, and bright lights flood, overload my system. The patience that I exhibit daily at work in my classroom feels out of place when I need to focus that patience on myself. It will get better. My brain will heal, realign, regain footing so to speak. And in the meantime I am the other side of the caregiving relationship for perhaps the first time. Vulnerable. In need of help, and in many ways being too weak not to take it in, the care being offered me.<br />
<br />
Learning, growth does occur in the context of our relationships. Even in painful moments, a kick to the head for me is resulting in a more open heart. A willingness to let go, to worry less, and trust in the goodness and presence of the people close to me, willing to do for me, what I do for that five year old boy. For this, I am grateful.<br />
<br />
Waiting to heal requires a different kind of strength, patience with myself, a conscientious choice to focus on positive outcome and interactions, things that will ultimately I hope, make me a stronger practitioner and teacher when I am given the green light to return to my classroom. Until then, to those caring for and educating my students in my absence, and my loved ones who are taking very good care of me I thank you from the bottom of my brain, and my heart.<br />
<br />
* For those interested in reading further about emotional development in infancy check out the following book (quoted from above): L. Sroufe, A (1995). <i>Emotional Development: The Organization Of Emotional Life In The Early Years</i>. New York, NY: Cambridge University Press.<br />
<br />
<br />Amy Clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03641873859600824498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-449664834351181557.post-5503846035912929492012-10-12T15:00:00.000-07:002012-11-20T14:13:30.760-08:00Dear Alice, I'll be your mirror. Love, Ms. AmyDear Alice,<br />
<br />
You are a wonder. At five years old you are in many respects the center of this classroom universe. Last January when you were moved to my room mid year from a neighboring classroom, you quite literally burst onto the scene, and changed everything. Alice you are an event, a force of nature, a brilliant anxious sweetness. And since the very first time I met you, when you screamed in the public bathroom because you were so worried about the automatic flush going off before you sat down on the toilet, (and I helped you change your wet clothes) I wanted to be able to help you, to ease your fears of the loud sounds, and all things out of your control. <br />
<br />
Before there can be learning, there must be trust, a safe base established for you to venture out from. Last year, I carried you everywhere. I felt like it was important to stay close to you, to help you manage your new environment like I would a much younger child. I was consistent, I was thoughtful, and I stayed calm even when you screamed, hit and kicked at me when you were upset. With the implementation of a consistent behavior plan to help you with your tantrums and aggression (which our Behavior Analyst crafted to help you), and with the the support of your family, you have been learning to calm down on your own. And yet, the use of the public restroom at school was still sending you into a tailspin of anger, tears, and screaming. <br />
<br />
After weeks of your distress permeating each part of your day, and your cries and screams ringing in all of our ears I realized that you are five! You know how to use the toilet. You know how to control your bowels, and you are also very capable of telling me that you need to go on your own. We had a little talk you and I. I told you the new plan and asked you if we had a deal. "DEAL!" When I ask if you need to use the bathroom you tell me, "No Pee, No Bathroom!" very clearly, and I tell you that I believe you.<br />
<br />
I am in awe of
your ability to adapt, to change, to grow, and to trust that you will be
okay, even if you don't know what is going to happen next.<br />
<br />
Each day, you are more confident, you try new things that you never tried before. Now? I see you walking into the room every morning with a happy joyful
spring. You sit next to me at circle time instead of in my lap. You made a craft project for the first time ever, on your own. Last week I saw you reach for a peers hand while walking. When you hold a baby doll close to your chest and come to me to re wrap the doll in a blanket, I think about last year, when you would stand in the dramatic play area for a few moments pretending to cook. Today you shared space with several peers block building. You said "No blocks please" when I offered you one, but you didn't walk away. I built a small tower, that looked like a chair. You tried to sit on it, and when it fell down? You didn't scream, you tried it again. A few moments later I watched you build a tower on your own for the first time ever. You giggled watching your peers. I am so proud of you. <br />
<br />
When you are upset or worried you scream "It's okay! While clapping your hands and looking to me for confirmation. I want you to know that I have complete faith in your ability to move through your difficult emotions. Alice you can be worried, and upset, and angry when things don't go your way, but now you are learning you can be safe, successful and you can try new things. I am privileged to be your teacher as you turn six, as you find your feet, your voice in this classroom world.<br />
<br />
There will still be times when you may ask me to pick you up, when you need a quiet moment of calm togetherness. You are worth every second I have spent structuring the day and my thoughts around your learning. We recently lined up with your peers to run with all the other kids in the school. You were scared, you were nervous, you clung to me and cried. I told you you could do it? And you did. You ran, happily. I see you Alice. You are brave, you are strong, you Alice, are okay. <br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Ms. Amy<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Amy Clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03641873859600824498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-449664834351181557.post-71198525471545220442012-10-06T12:47:00.001-07:002012-11-20T14:13:49.370-08:00At The Round Table... Proximity is PreciousThe only piece of furniture I really wanted for my classroom was a round table. The "kidney shaped" tables, the classic rectangle can communicate messages of separateness, an imbalance of power with an adult on one side and the children on the other. A round table however inspires a very different kind of conversation. Partial to them perhaps because I grew up in a family where we ate dinner every night all together at a round table. In a time when families often no longer eat together, the value of how my parents chose to raise us around that table is not lost on me. It didn't matter that my mother's feelings about cooking were ambivalent at best, or that my brother had to have cheerios and quesadillas every night instead of what the rest of the family ate... What mattered was that every single night, we all sat together. Looked at each other. Talked, argued, laughed. Yes, my youngest sister was given permission to stand on her chair to get a word in edgewise... a feat she miraculously only tried once. But that round table is where we learned to communicate, to take turns, to listen, to share, to be together in a small space where there was enough room for everyone in our family, and room for everyone we invited to share a meal with us.<br />
<br />
The round table is the ultimate way to tell my students "We really are all in this together." Everyone is equal, everyone has a place, and one cannot avoid another when seated directly next to and across from each other. This is how we create community. The clinical aspects of this furniture choice are as follows... Myself and my assistants model conversation with the children, with each other. If a child looks up, there will be another person in front of them to meet his gaze. If a child has difficulty sharing space, it's an opportunity to stretch ones comfort level with other peers so close at hand. Labeling food items, noticing if a child likes or doesn't like a food item, commenting, questioning and encouraging vocalizations are all ways we are supporting speech and language development. And my personal favorite... the opportunity to develop essential self -help skills such as opening and closing containers, asking for "help", for "more", and being responded to quickly and consistently is communicating a sense of personal agency, autonomy and ultimately? Pleasure, joy, a precious shared proximity to each other.<br />
<br />
One may wonder, what does this sound like, look like? A group of Autistic Pre-K and Kinder students eating together? To be a fly on our wall you will hear humming, squeals of laughter, silence if everyone is particularly hungry, a shout, an adult prompting "more" and "please" (yes it's never too early or too late to learn manners), and applauding when the child approximates or signs the word. Sometimes someone sings practicing circle time songs, or plays peek-a-boo after eating has finished. One may hear a small boy saying "Ms. Amy, Call me me Princess Kate!" "Princess Kate, you need to finish your lunch your mom made for you." "No, Ms Amy, Princess Kate's mommy did not make the lunch, Prince William made it for her."<br />
<br />
Proximity is precious. Circles of Communication. There is a place for everyone at our table. If one day someone needs to stand on a chair to be heard? I'll think of my little sister, and instead of saying "Get down that's not safe!" I will say, " What would you like to tell us _______?"Amy Clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03641873859600824498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-449664834351181557.post-79150654705406530412012-09-27T18:40:00.000-07:002012-11-20T14:14:03.832-08:00A Boy Like LightningI think I will call him Lightning. You see, this child, this magic little person is fast and sudden in his ability to be here then gone around the corner, smiling a big toothy and toothless grin to make sure a preferred adult is in hot pursuit of him. Lightning is five now. The youngest of three boys, all of whom have an Autism Spectrum Diagnosis. Lightning runs to gain attention, to feel the specialness of being chased, and the safety of being caught.<br />
<br />
Slow to talk, (but he IS talking now!), Lightning relies on this elopement to communicate what he needs. Slowly, slowly he is gaining new skills to have the kind of interactions and support that he is craving.
When he was four, I learned that he realistically, was actually a toddler. A consistent, nurturing, highly responsive method of teaching was required to meet his particular needs. It's important for me as his teacher for the second year, to remember that even though he is five, he requires a different kind of support than his same age peers. My expectations need to shift in order to create the best educational environment for Lightning.<br />
<br />
For instance, today he built with blocks. He started his work time at the easel where he painted by tapping so hard and fast with a paint brush in each hand, specks of blue paint dotted his face. When he finished painting Lightning walked past a very tall, block tower that his peers had just finished creating. He stopped, stared at it, walked around it, and faster than fast kicked it over with both feet until all the blocks lay scattered on the ground. I spoke to him about cleaning up, he complied and sat down with me to pick up blocks together. After putting several blocks away Lightning began to build with the remaining blocks on the floor. Completing a small tower, he grinned at me and began to scoot back giving me the "I want you to catch me look." I responded, "I am going to catch you and bring you back." Laughing he allowed me to bring him back, then grinning at me again quickly kicked his tower over laughing hysterically.<br />
<br />
I pressed pause in my mind... My expectation for Lightning's peers is that they will not intentionally knock blocks down when building, which is an age appropriate expectation for four and five year olds, but not for a toddler. I smiled, and started to play his game with him. Lightning built and kicked, built and kicked gleefully with my assistance for several minutes. He was completely engaged, productive and learning what all toddlers need to learn, cause and effect. I am powerful when I cause this noise to happen. And what a sight, blocks of all shapes and sizes scattered around ones feet moments after carefully erecting a tower.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhINCNY_FrFMYkXEEwD1tq0PTp3XvJxMuiNf7wVQX2WUFLg3vGb1_a5Oz0mOHbv2x4_m9WV_lGxKaoONvCjw7gqJ7br_PquOehzFH8CX9ffoZ6g19kZ1YBfM0e_4X4knAPGjgUX7XWtfdr/s1600/blocks1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhINCNY_FrFMYkXEEwD1tq0PTp3XvJxMuiNf7wVQX2WUFLg3vGb1_a5Oz0mOHbv2x4_m9WV_lGxKaoONvCjw7gqJ7br_PquOehzFH8CX9ffoZ6g19kZ1YBfM0e_4X4knAPGjgUX7XWtfdr/s1600/blocks1.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMELdlEhDNt2vK7j_y6iKw8NQXgGfLGvTgIuDdybgmC3Oy6VCHeeX2t8rx5uZCuZIM0jKQd2MbB8nIPnS_saKt836Vmn7li6twZFsJavr9T84DwlatnSq69CPi1NPKJY6alcHVa9sGq-20/s1600/blocks2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMELdlEhDNt2vK7j_y6iKw8NQXgGfLGvTgIuDdybgmC3Oy6VCHeeX2t8rx5uZCuZIM0jKQd2MbB8nIPnS_saKt836Vmn7li6twZFsJavr9T84DwlatnSq69CPi1NPKJY6alcHVa9sGq-20/s1600/blocks2.jpg" /></a></div>
It is not possible to build a tower without first laying a foundation, and the same is true in education. No matter the age, or the preferred outcomes we must start as educators where a person is. We cannot skip developmental steps in order to meet academic goals that may be age appropriate, but not developmentally.
Provide the safe base first, build second, and relax when something carefully constructed comes crashing down. The beauty of block building and teaching, is that we can always build, we can always try again tomorrow. And tomorrow, the tower may be taller, the crash louder, and one day? Lighting will build with blocks for the pleasure and cognitive challenge of construction, confident in his abilities to affect the world with his mind, and his hands.Amy Clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03641873859600824498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-449664834351181557.post-68126260549146267802012-09-26T14:40:00.000-07:002012-11-20T14:12:10.599-08:00An Unexpected Art Class: The Gift of Reverse MainstreamingWhen school began several weeks ago three third grade girls ran into my classroom during their recess in search of the teacher whose classroom this used to be. "Can we help? Do you need help?" They chorused loudly, enthusiastically. I told them I didn't need help with chores, but I did need help teaching my preschool children how to play, could they help with this? They can, they do. A gaggle of five girls has become anywhere between ten and thirty third graders knocking on the door "Can we play? "Can we use the clay?", "Can we paint?" And my favorite request, "is the art class open?"<br />
<br />
My attempts at providing developmentally appropriate, open ended sensory, art and literacy experiences for my preschool children with Autism, has expanded to serve a need I wasn't anticipating, a creative experience for grade school children. They rush into the room, lining up at the easels to paint, to create structures out of duct tape and card board. "It's a kite", "I made a filter for my fish tank", "I made head phones because it's so loud." Art has become the focus, the foundation on which this classroom community is being built. "Can this be our art class everyday?" "Can I take this painting home to my mom?" "Can you get us more ribbon and cardboard boxes?" "See, I told you it was fun in this room", one girl remarked to her friend.<br />
<br />
The social aspects of this reverse mainstreaming surprise and encourage me. If Alice, my oldest and perhaps most rigid student can practice her cutting skills with scissors and construction paper while sharing space and materials with an unpredictable, loud group of older children? Fantastic. Frequent "gift giving" and letter writing, small connections are being made. "It's okay if she doesn't smile when you give her the letter, the important thing is that you wrote it", I tell the children who are thinking hard about ways to interact with my students.<br />
<br />
Vernon, age four asked an older boy to read aloud to him, and gave him a high five when the book was complete. Sally ran to the door and grabbed the hand of the girl who played playdough with her the day before. Frances who does not speak, ran into the center of the older kids who were jumping on the trampoline laughed, flapped his arms, and joined them. When Frances observed the older boys pretending to be Doctors? He sat down next to them, put on a stethoscope and imitated their play.
<br />
<br />
Occasionally in stressful moments the need to contain, or limit the "art class" recess time for the third grade comes to mind, but the thought is fleeting as I consider the value of free, creative, expressive play for eight- year olds. Having their own self made art class, and the opportunity to learn about other kinds of people is filling a hole in their academic curriculum, well balanced day. What these third graders are bringing to my students is of irreplaceable value: their ability to connect, interact and yes teach, my Autistic students how to play. It really is fun in this room. Pass the duct tape.
Amy Clairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03641873859600824498noreply@blogger.com0