Some people say that babies only learn to talk so they can tell adults to stop being so silly. When faced with a new born, or a toddler, or a child, we do have a tendency to adopt that cutesy tone, speak a couple of octaves higher than we usually would and get very overexcited by anything the infants tell us.
But it’s easy to get carried away. Especially at story time. A key time of day in the Early Years is that point where we all settle down to hear about Elmer’s latest trysts or to find out if ‘The Gruffalo’ ends any differently on the 45th read through. And we all know that it’s no good to just tell the tale. We need expression, we need to demonstrate the pleasure that we get from stories and we need to be excited so we can pass our love of and enthusiasm for reading on to the little ones. And a great way to bring all this together is by building the tension and creating that atmosphere of suspense.
So I sat down to read the latest class favourite to my charges, and although I could recite the text word-for-word, backwards, I still got a bit caught up in the moment. ‘But who do you think is hiding in the bush?!’ I asked, all wide-eyed and squeaky voiced. ‘An elephant!’ The class cried, giggling as I turned the page to reveal all. ‘And who do you think is stuck up in the tree?!’ I jiggled a bit in my seat as I waited for the cry of ‘snaaaaaake!’ followed by screeches of delight. But on that particular day I may have gone a little too far ...
‘And, last of all, who do you think is hiding in the hole?!’ I drew out my vowels and slowly moved my gaze around the room, watching as a few of the more imaginative children screwed up their noses and hugged themselves in excitement. But one of them wasn’t quite so taken.
‘Uuhhhh…’ came a sigh from the back corner of the room. ‘Teacher, can’t we just see? If you turn the page, then you’ll find out!’
Sunday, 23 October 2011
Saturday, 1 October 2011
Eat up, it’ll make you grow nice and strong…
Trying to getting a child who won’t eat to take a nibble of their food can be like trying to get blood out of a stone. I, personally, find banging my head against a brick wall more productive. But there is one fail-safe tip that is always effective …
Whilst visiting my former nursery class I joined in with circle time to share in the selection of satsuma segments and raisins. As guest of honour I found myself being the spoilt with gifts of a wide variety of squashed and fingered fruit, for all of which I expressed my gratitude profusely before surreptitiously sneaking them back into the plastic bowls to be sucked on by the intended recipients.
Joe, sitting to my right, particularly proudly presented me with a squished raisin, alongside a beaming smile and a self-satisfied stance.
'For you.’ He proclaimed, staring over without blinking as if challenging me to risk slipping it back into his bowl.
‘Thanks Joey!’ I held the raisin, deciding that one couldn’t do too much damage. ’Are you going to eat some of your fruit too?’ Joey hesitated before wrinkling up his nose and diverting his gaze to his bowl. I watched to see where he was going until my attention was distracted by Benjamin. He was sitting so close to Joey that he was practically in his lap, and demanding raisins as his bowl had only held satsuma.
‘Look Ben,’ I indicated Joey’s bowl. ‘Joey has lots of raisins, I’m sure he’ll share them with you.’ Of course what I actually meant was Joey ‘will share his raisins with you, and if he refuses he will get a mini-lecture on the need to be nice to our friends and will be forced to hand over a raisin and ‘be kind‘ whether he likes it or not.’
Joe hesitated before looking down at his massive stash of dried grapes, but in the intermittent period Kiara, sitting on my other side, decided to take control of the situation. Standing up with a giggle of pleasure at her impending good deed she leant over and plucked the raisin Joey had given me out of my hand, holding it tightly between her forefinger and thumb as if it were a precious stone, before gazing round the whole room in great concentration and finding Benjamin, still all but sat in Joey’s lap. Very deliberately she toddled over towards Ben and presented him with a broad smile and the, by now split and flattened, sacred raisin.
‘Thank you,’ Ben said, all seriously.
‘It’s ok.’ Kiara replied, matching Ben’s grave demeanour.
Ben raised his hand to his mouth and took the raisin, chewing slowly and deliberately for what seemed like at least five minutes before swallowing with a self-satisfied gulp.
‘Do you want some more Ben?’ I questioned, aware that Joey was still clinging onto his supply that was practically spilling over the rim whilst Ben’s bowl was empty but for a speck of rejected pith.
‘No, I’m full now.’ He declared, rubbing his stomach and breathing deeply.
Kiara patted him on the head before returning to her space and looking over for a bit of reassurance that she had, indeed, ‘been kind to her friends’. I gave her a smile, then glanced back over at Joey, who was now hoovering up raisins as if his life depended on it. It never fails - no way is as effective at getting a child to eat as threatening - explicitly or otherwise - to give their food to one of their peers.
Whilst visiting my former nursery class I joined in with circle time to share in the selection of satsuma segments and raisins. As guest of honour I found myself being the spoilt with gifts of a wide variety of squashed and fingered fruit, for all of which I expressed my gratitude profusely before surreptitiously sneaking them back into the plastic bowls to be sucked on by the intended recipients.
Joe, sitting to my right, particularly proudly presented me with a squished raisin, alongside a beaming smile and a self-satisfied stance.
'For you.’ He proclaimed, staring over without blinking as if challenging me to risk slipping it back into his bowl.
‘Thanks Joey!’ I held the raisin, deciding that one couldn’t do too much damage. ’Are you going to eat some of your fruit too?’ Joey hesitated before wrinkling up his nose and diverting his gaze to his bowl. I watched to see where he was going until my attention was distracted by Benjamin. He was sitting so close to Joey that he was practically in his lap, and demanding raisins as his bowl had only held satsuma.
‘Look Ben,’ I indicated Joey’s bowl. ‘Joey has lots of raisins, I’m sure he’ll share them with you.’ Of course what I actually meant was Joey ‘will share his raisins with you, and if he refuses he will get a mini-lecture on the need to be nice to our friends and will be forced to hand over a raisin and ‘be kind‘ whether he likes it or not.’
Joe hesitated before looking down at his massive stash of dried grapes, but in the intermittent period Kiara, sitting on my other side, decided to take control of the situation. Standing up with a giggle of pleasure at her impending good deed she leant over and plucked the raisin Joey had given me out of my hand, holding it tightly between her forefinger and thumb as if it were a precious stone, before gazing round the whole room in great concentration and finding Benjamin, still all but sat in Joey’s lap. Very deliberately she toddled over towards Ben and presented him with a broad smile and the, by now split and flattened, sacred raisin.
‘Thank you,’ Ben said, all seriously.
‘It’s ok.’ Kiara replied, matching Ben’s grave demeanour.
Ben raised his hand to his mouth and took the raisin, chewing slowly and deliberately for what seemed like at least five minutes before swallowing with a self-satisfied gulp.
‘Do you want some more Ben?’ I questioned, aware that Joey was still clinging onto his supply that was practically spilling over the rim whilst Ben’s bowl was empty but for a speck of rejected pith.
‘No, I’m full now.’ He declared, rubbing his stomach and breathing deeply.
Kiara patted him on the head before returning to her space and looking over for a bit of reassurance that she had, indeed, ‘been kind to her friends’. I gave her a smile, then glanced back over at Joey, who was now hoovering up raisins as if his life depended on it. It never fails - no way is as effective at getting a child to eat as threatening - explicitly or otherwise - to give their food to one of their peers.
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
It's Time to say Goodbye
Separation is hard. Whatever your age it’s never easy to say goodbye, especially if the chances of seeing that person again are slim. Sometimes we avoid facing up to that with promises to stay in touch and visit regularly, but we’re often more than aware that it’s all a front.
But when you have to say goodbye to a class who you know you’re not going to see again you do have to be honest. False assurances that you will see them again do not help little ones to live with the situation - it’s better that they know where they stand from the start. Take my own example as a case study: I was distraught when my first headmaster left my primary school at the end of my Reception year. He was nothing less than a legend for the whole school, and even at the tender age of five it was strange to imagine the place without him. When he came back to visit the following summer I was delighted to see him, and clung onto his parting words in faith - ‘I’ll come and visit again when Tony grows into his shorts.’ We all had a giggle at Tony’s Hawaiian pair which were hanging down practically to his ankles, but I think maybe I was the only person who took his promise literally. A year later Tony come in wearing those same shorts, only this time his waist filled them and they stopped at his knees. ‘Yay!’ I thought. ‘That means Mr D will come and visit again today!’ He didn’t. I waited all summer, but he never came back. In fact I haven’t seen Mr D since, and I’m pretty confident that Tony has even outgrown his shorts by now.
So when I had to finish a long term placement in the Nursery I wanted to be honest with the children. I wanted them to understand that I was going for good, and I didn’t want to leave any illusions. Especially for those children who had (or at least I felt had) formed a particularly strong connection to me. One of those children was Davey.
A good opportunity for a frank conversation presented itself when he came and sat next to me to do his drawing. He concentrated greatly, chatting away about his artwork and explaining what all the wiggly lines meant. Then, when the time seemed appropriate, I asked him if he realised that I was leaving and wouldn’t be coming to Nursery anymore. He fell silent and drew for a little bit longer as I wallowed in my feelings of guilt, before he looked up, fixed his gaze right on mine, and said, ‘how do you sleep at night?’ My guilt tripled. I smiled at him in an attempt to soften his glare and apologised profusely for the situation, explained that I wish I didn’t have to go and that although I wouldn’t be back I wouldn’t forget him and would think of him regularly. His frown deepened as I ended my spiel and a shiver of dread tickled my spine when he opened his mouth to reply. ‘Well,’ he started. ‘Have you got a television in your room? Because I think you might seep better if you turn it off, televisions keep you awake.’ And then he went back to his artwork.
I took Davey’s advice. My TV is now perched up on my kitchen counter and my bedroom remains a screen-free sanctuary. And that, so I believe, is one of the top tips for ensuring a good night’s sleep. Davey was certainly onto something.
But when you have to say goodbye to a class who you know you’re not going to see again you do have to be honest. False assurances that you will see them again do not help little ones to live with the situation - it’s better that they know where they stand from the start. Take my own example as a case study: I was distraught when my first headmaster left my primary school at the end of my Reception year. He was nothing less than a legend for the whole school, and even at the tender age of five it was strange to imagine the place without him. When he came back to visit the following summer I was delighted to see him, and clung onto his parting words in faith - ‘I’ll come and visit again when Tony grows into his shorts.’ We all had a giggle at Tony’s Hawaiian pair which were hanging down practically to his ankles, but I think maybe I was the only person who took his promise literally. A year later Tony come in wearing those same shorts, only this time his waist filled them and they stopped at his knees. ‘Yay!’ I thought. ‘That means Mr D will come and visit again today!’ He didn’t. I waited all summer, but he never came back. In fact I haven’t seen Mr D since, and I’m pretty confident that Tony has even outgrown his shorts by now.
So when I had to finish a long term placement in the Nursery I wanted to be honest with the children. I wanted them to understand that I was going for good, and I didn’t want to leave any illusions. Especially for those children who had (or at least I felt had) formed a particularly strong connection to me. One of those children was Davey.
A good opportunity for a frank conversation presented itself when he came and sat next to me to do his drawing. He concentrated greatly, chatting away about his artwork and explaining what all the wiggly lines meant. Then, when the time seemed appropriate, I asked him if he realised that I was leaving and wouldn’t be coming to Nursery anymore. He fell silent and drew for a little bit longer as I wallowed in my feelings of guilt, before he looked up, fixed his gaze right on mine, and said, ‘how do you sleep at night?’ My guilt tripled. I smiled at him in an attempt to soften his glare and apologised profusely for the situation, explained that I wish I didn’t have to go and that although I wouldn’t be back I wouldn’t forget him and would think of him regularly. His frown deepened as I ended my spiel and a shiver of dread tickled my spine when he opened his mouth to reply. ‘Well,’ he started. ‘Have you got a television in your room? Because I think you might seep better if you turn it off, televisions keep you awake.’ And then he went back to his artwork.
I took Davey’s advice. My TV is now perched up on my kitchen counter and my bedroom remains a screen-free sanctuary. And that, so I believe, is one of the top tips for ensuring a good night’s sleep. Davey was certainly onto something.
Does your Husband ever say 'Good Lord'...?
It’s been a struggle to write this week. Not through lack of material, motivation or spare time but purely because I have so much that I could put into this blog that it’s taken me a week to narrow it down to one thing. I dithered between focusing on the three year old who will sit quietly for the majority of circle time but erupt every now and then with a quote off the box such as ‘You’re des-PIC-able’ or ‘What you chattin’ about?’ aimed at myself before breaking his scowl into the most glorious little smile then resuming his interest in the story or munching carrots whilst slurping on his milk. Then there’s the little girl who looks round the room with wonder every time she is called, wide eyed and responding with ‘but that’s my name!’ as if she has been spoken to by a messiah. Or I could tell you all about our attempts to take the Nursery Class photo this week, but I don’t think I’m quite recovered enough to talk about that one yet…
In the end I decided to regale you lovely people with a story that seems to have found its own personal little fan base around South Wales, after a friend of mine burst into hysterics over it last week and has decided to (practically) splash it all over the local tabloids. It’s not actually early years, but I thought that 6 was close enough. And it’s well worth bending the rules for this one!
So, I’m in class, it’s a pretty regular day, I’m trying to encourage little Sammy to focus on his compound words with promises of an extra slice of orange at playtime or getting to choose his favourite book for story time. I’m congratulating myself when the bribery works and he immerses himself in his task, his nose practically touching the tabletop as he scrawls his name across the top of the page. I allow my gaze to drift across the room, ensuring that Sammy’s peers are all as equally involved in their work, when I feel a tugging on my sleeve. Looking down into Sammy’s eager face I give him a nod to encourage his question, at which point he frowns and opens his mouth.
'Beth,’ he begins all serious and concerned about (or so I thought) his compounds.
'Yes?’ I wait for him to continue, glancing at his page to see how far through the exercise he has got.
'Does your husband ever say ‘Good Lord’?’
In all honesty I don’t think I even cracked a smile, so surprised was I at what had come out of this little boy’s mouth in the middle of his literacy session. Instead I decided to volunteer a little personal information, unaware of what I was opening myself up for.
'I don’t actually have a husband Sammy, I’m not married.’ This not being a point of concern to me at the moment, being 26 and enjoying life and unperturbed by the fact that some of my friends have started to tie the knot - there’s plenty of time for all that yet. But obviously Sammy doesn’t share my sentiments.
'WHAT?!’ He shouts out, his frown deepening. ‘But everyone in the whole world has a husband. Except you.’ He adds the last bit pointedly, but I don’t bristle. I chuckle to myself and start to defend my life decisions to this six-year old.
'Well I’m still young you know Sammy, there’s life left in me yet! I might have a husband one day, I just don’t have one yet.’ I wait for his response as he looks me up and down, chewing on his pencil and considering his next line.
'Hmm,’ he grunts, his gaze lingering on my face. ‘Well, I highly doubt it!’ And with that he returns to his compound words, leaving me, I must say, more that just a little bit stunned …
In the end I decided to regale you lovely people with a story that seems to have found its own personal little fan base around South Wales, after a friend of mine burst into hysterics over it last week and has decided to (practically) splash it all over the local tabloids. It’s not actually early years, but I thought that 6 was close enough. And it’s well worth bending the rules for this one!
So, I’m in class, it’s a pretty regular day, I’m trying to encourage little Sammy to focus on his compound words with promises of an extra slice of orange at playtime or getting to choose his favourite book for story time. I’m congratulating myself when the bribery works and he immerses himself in his task, his nose practically touching the tabletop as he scrawls his name across the top of the page. I allow my gaze to drift across the room, ensuring that Sammy’s peers are all as equally involved in their work, when I feel a tugging on my sleeve. Looking down into Sammy’s eager face I give him a nod to encourage his question, at which point he frowns and opens his mouth.
'Beth,’ he begins all serious and concerned about (or so I thought) his compounds.
'Yes?’ I wait for him to continue, glancing at his page to see how far through the exercise he has got.
'Does your husband ever say ‘Good Lord’?’
In all honesty I don’t think I even cracked a smile, so surprised was I at what had come out of this little boy’s mouth in the middle of his literacy session. Instead I decided to volunteer a little personal information, unaware of what I was opening myself up for.
'I don’t actually have a husband Sammy, I’m not married.’ This not being a point of concern to me at the moment, being 26 and enjoying life and unperturbed by the fact that some of my friends have started to tie the knot - there’s plenty of time for all that yet. But obviously Sammy doesn’t share my sentiments.
'WHAT?!’ He shouts out, his frown deepening. ‘But everyone in the whole world has a husband. Except you.’ He adds the last bit pointedly, but I don’t bristle. I chuckle to myself and start to defend my life decisions to this six-year old.
'Well I’m still young you know Sammy, there’s life left in me yet! I might have a husband one day, I just don’t have one yet.’ I wait for his response as he looks me up and down, chewing on his pencil and considering his next line.
'Hmm,’ he grunts, his gaze lingering on my face. ‘Well, I highly doubt it!’ And with that he returns to his compound words, leaving me, I must say, more that just a little bit stunned …
World Cup Wonders
I’ve always felt I could write a book of ‘Teacher’s Tales’, filled to bursting with the Best Bits of working in the Early Years. But I’m not sure how many people would buy it… . So the Protocol Blog seems like the perfect opportunity to put down on ‘paper’ all those things about my job that just make me roll on the floor with laughter!
You’ve got to hand it to these kids. They’re just trying their hardest, bless ’em, to understand this crazy world we live in. It isn’t easy. How often have you picked up a Raspberry and wondered how on earth to make it connect to the internet? Or marvelled at the wonder of being able to transfer your favourite tunes from a computer to a phone by nothing less that magic? And don’t even get me started on rewinding Coronation Street if your boyfriend commits the cardinal sin of calling in the middle of Deirdre’s latest ramblings. But, the thing is, for many of these little darlings to whom we dedicate our working lives, they are trying to make sense of everything, and doing it all the time. No wonder they so often get it wrong.
* * *
So, when the World Cup came around last summer I thought, (like so many other like-minded professionals out there), ‘Ah ha! Here’s a perfect opportunity for some cross-curricular learning, with plenty of opportunities to incorporate thinking about different cultures and countries, all set against a backdrop of something the children will relate to and be excited about, and therefore be engaged in. Perfect!’
I brought the children in after lunch and settled them down on the carpet, rushed through the register and the usual scrabbling around to get everyone settled into their carpet places without being poked by a peer, becoming
‘squashy’ or getting over-excited about the fly buzzing around the corner of the room, then proudly flicked on to my ‘World Cup 2010’ flipchart. It was complete with animated text, interactive games and stimulating photos of top football players to get the ideas flowing. I started off with a Youtube clip of a football game and watched in satisfaction as 30 little people fell silent and stared in awe at the board, pleased that they were so interested in the latest topic. Then, once the clip had been played (and played again, and again, in response to their demands), I turned to the class to explain that we were going to be doing some work on the World Cup over the next few days.
‘Yeah!’
‘Cool!’
‘I love the World Cup!’
‘My Daddy likes the World Cup, it’s the football.’
‘My Granny has false teeth.’
‘I like Chelsea.’
‘I like Arsenal.’
‘I play football in the park.’
‘I was sick last night.’
‘There was a bird in the playground.’
And so on and so on
…
Once I had quietened them down I started to explain a little about the World Cup to ensure that everyone knew the score (no pun intended). I talked about football, and explained that the World Cup was a big football competition where a lot of countries played together, including England. I made my explanation succinct, simple and inclusive as I mentioned a few particular countries that related to my pupils. Then I set about explaining what we were going to do that afternoon, when a waving hand at the back of the room attracted my attention.
‘Yes, Abdul?’ I noticed the crease lines on his forehead and the confusion in his deep mahogany eyes as he opened his mouth to speak.
‘But Teacher,’ he started, very serious and concerned about the matter at hand. ‘How big is the football going to be? Will it be this big?’ As he spread his arms apart demonstrate the size of his ‘big football’ I lowered my head, took a deep breath and tried to straighten my features out before I tackled that challenge…
You’ve got to hand it to these kids. They’re just trying their hardest, bless ’em, to understand this crazy world we live in. It isn’t easy. How often have you picked up a Raspberry and wondered how on earth to make it connect to the internet? Or marvelled at the wonder of being able to transfer your favourite tunes from a computer to a phone by nothing less that magic? And don’t even get me started on rewinding Coronation Street if your boyfriend commits the cardinal sin of calling in the middle of Deirdre’s latest ramblings. But, the thing is, for many of these little darlings to whom we dedicate our working lives, they are trying to make sense of everything, and doing it all the time. No wonder they so often get it wrong.
* * *
So, when the World Cup came around last summer I thought, (like so many other like-minded professionals out there), ‘Ah ha! Here’s a perfect opportunity for some cross-curricular learning, with plenty of opportunities to incorporate thinking about different cultures and countries, all set against a backdrop of something the children will relate to and be excited about, and therefore be engaged in. Perfect!’
I brought the children in after lunch and settled them down on the carpet, rushed through the register and the usual scrabbling around to get everyone settled into their carpet places without being poked by a peer, becoming
‘squashy’ or getting over-excited about the fly buzzing around the corner of the room, then proudly flicked on to my ‘World Cup 2010’ flipchart. It was complete with animated text, interactive games and stimulating photos of top football players to get the ideas flowing. I started off with a Youtube clip of a football game and watched in satisfaction as 30 little people fell silent and stared in awe at the board, pleased that they were so interested in the latest topic. Then, once the clip had been played (and played again, and again, in response to their demands), I turned to the class to explain that we were going to be doing some work on the World Cup over the next few days.
‘Yeah!’
‘Cool!’
‘I love the World Cup!’
‘My Daddy likes the World Cup, it’s the football.’
‘My Granny has false teeth.’
‘I like Chelsea.’
‘I like Arsenal.’
‘I play football in the park.’
‘I was sick last night.’
‘There was a bird in the playground.’
And so on and so on
…
Once I had quietened them down I started to explain a little about the World Cup to ensure that everyone knew the score (no pun intended). I talked about football, and explained that the World Cup was a big football competition where a lot of countries played together, including England. I made my explanation succinct, simple and inclusive as I mentioned a few particular countries that related to my pupils. Then I set about explaining what we were going to do that afternoon, when a waving hand at the back of the room attracted my attention.
‘Yes, Abdul?’ I noticed the crease lines on his forehead and the confusion in his deep mahogany eyes as he opened his mouth to speak.
‘But Teacher,’ he started, very serious and concerned about the matter at hand. ‘How big is the football going to be? Will it be this big?’ As he spread his arms apart demonstrate the size of his ‘big football’ I lowered my head, took a deep breath and tried to straighten my features out before I tackled that challenge…
Geography in the Early Years
Geography. Or KUW, as we know it in the Early Years. It’s tricky for the little ones; their knowledge of place is undeveloped and their concept of distance is, well, rather skewed. Bless them.
I went to visit my old class the other day and was met by amazement and disbelief that I hadn‘t simply ceased to exist (except from Davey, of the sage sleeping advice. I’m not convinced that he had even noticed I had gone…). Then after the initial excitement had calmed down the Nursery Nurse asked me if I would like to do a question time with the children, so of course I agreed (I’m yet to learn…).
So after twenty minutes of shuffling and moving and moving and shuffling we had the children in a circle and I waited expectantly for the questions. We went through why I had left and where I had gone, then the topic moved on to where I had come from that morning.
It was Maddy who started the interrogation, with ‘but did you have to get an aeroplane here?’
Smiling I gently replied, ‘No Maddy, I came on the bus.’
She frowned. ‘But why didn’t you get an aeroplane?’
‘Well I haven’t really come that far Maddy, I only needed to get a bus.’ She relaxed for a second with an ‘oh’ of understanding, before her cogs started turning again.
‘Well did you come from Japan?’ She questioned.
‘No Maddy,’ I replied, ‘I only came from a place called Swiss Cottage, it’s not very far away so that’s why I took the bus.’
‘Oh. Well why didn’t you get the aeroplane from Japan?’
Closed eyes, deep breath … ‘I didn’t come from Japan, Maddy. I came from another place in London. It’s not very far away.’
‘Oh. Well what’s that place called?’
‘Swiss Cottage.’ (Did I not say that already?)
‘Oh.’ She paused and I held my breath - had we finally got somewhere? She looked away and I thought we were moving on, but then she turned back.
‘Well is Swiss Cottage in Japan?’
I hesitated before deciding to take the easy way out… ‘Um, nearly!‘ I replied. ‘Well it’s in the same hemisphere … ’ I inhaled. ‘Mrs Smith?’ I called. ‘I think I’d better make a move. I’ll come and visit again sometime!’ As I was leaving I heard that unmistakeable lilt of Maddy’s follow me out through the door.
‘I know where miss is going.’ She asserted to her classmates. ‘She’s going to Japan. And she’s going on an aeroplane! But don’t worry, she’ll visit us again soon.’ And I will, I promise …
I went to visit my old class the other day and was met by amazement and disbelief that I hadn‘t simply ceased to exist (except from Davey, of the sage sleeping advice. I’m not convinced that he had even noticed I had gone…). Then after the initial excitement had calmed down the Nursery Nurse asked me if I would like to do a question time with the children, so of course I agreed (I’m yet to learn…).
So after twenty minutes of shuffling and moving and moving and shuffling we had the children in a circle and I waited expectantly for the questions. We went through why I had left and where I had gone, then the topic moved on to where I had come from that morning.
It was Maddy who started the interrogation, with ‘but did you have to get an aeroplane here?’
Smiling I gently replied, ‘No Maddy, I came on the bus.’
She frowned. ‘But why didn’t you get an aeroplane?’
‘Well I haven’t really come that far Maddy, I only needed to get a bus.’ She relaxed for a second with an ‘oh’ of understanding, before her cogs started turning again.
‘Well did you come from Japan?’ She questioned.
‘No Maddy,’ I replied, ‘I only came from a place called Swiss Cottage, it’s not very far away so that’s why I took the bus.’
‘Oh. Well why didn’t you get the aeroplane from Japan?’
Closed eyes, deep breath … ‘I didn’t come from Japan, Maddy. I came from another place in London. It’s not very far away.’
‘Oh. Well what’s that place called?’
‘Swiss Cottage.’ (Did I not say that already?)
‘Oh.’ She paused and I held my breath - had we finally got somewhere? She looked away and I thought we were moving on, but then she turned back.
‘Well is Swiss Cottage in Japan?’
I hesitated before deciding to take the easy way out… ‘Um, nearly!‘ I replied. ‘Well it’s in the same hemisphere … ’ I inhaled. ‘Mrs Smith?’ I called. ‘I think I’d better make a move. I’ll come and visit again sometime!’ As I was leaving I heard that unmistakeable lilt of Maddy’s follow me out through the door.
‘I know where miss is going.’ She asserted to her classmates. ‘She’s going to Japan. And she’s going on an aeroplane! But don’t worry, she’ll visit us again soon.’ And I will, I promise …
Birth of a Baby
The birth of a sibling can be a difficult time for a child. Especially if, until the arrival of the latest offspring, that child has been baby of the family. Suddenly they have to get used to sharing the attention, sharing their space, sharing their toys and, well, sharing their life.
As an Early Years Teacher I always aim to be aware of children who are going through this transition and help them adjust to their change of circumstances. (Maybe my commitment to this aspect of my job has something to do with being relegated from ‘baby of the family’ to ‘neglected middle child’ at the age of four and never quite getting over my change of status… (that’s a joke mum!) :-s ). So when I heard that Tommy’s mother was expecting I made sure to go out of my way to help him understand and accept what was happening, and gave him a little extra attention here and there to make it all a bit easier for him.
I wanted to encourage Tommy to talk about his new sibling so in the run up to the birth I asked him about the baby in mummy’s tummy and if he knew when the baby would be born (I wasn’t really expecting a three year old to give me an accurate due date, but I thought (naively?) that he may have some idea of whether it was a matter of days or months…) and I was rather surprised when he sighed in a manner that suggested he was shouldering the woes of the world (a rather usual temperament for Tommy) and uttered rather resignedly ‘twenty years’. Wow. The things I am yet to learn about pregnancy (I did later tell my sister-in-law to think herself lucky that she was only a week overdue rather than nineteen years, but I’m not sure my pearls of wisdom did anything to ease her impatience).
When the baby finally did come along, not quite twenty years later but only a couple of weeks, I took Tommy to one side to ask him about his new sister, and his disappointed was evident when he said ‘but I didn’t want a girl baby, I wanted a boy baby.’ His mournful brown eyes gazed into mine and I’m sure I detected an inkling of hope, as if he thought it was in my power to rectify the situation as he desired. We had a little chat about things and I covered all the standard topics until he was ready to run off and find the Spiderman suit, and I pondered on how the whole experience may affect him. I wasn’t too sure how he was really feeling about the recent arrival so I decided to keep an open mind, play it by ear and just be aware; I felt pretty prepared to support him as he became ‘big brother’ rather than ‘little baby’. But there was one thing I hadn’t considered. That was disappointment.
I don’t mean disappointment at having a baby in the family, but disappointment about how little a new born can actually do. We’ve all seen it on tv; think of ‘Friends’ when baby Ben is born - the crew cooed over him for a full five minutes before deciding that he didn’t really do much and opting for coffee in Central Perk over oohing and aahing for the next few hours. But I’ve never before accounted for that disappointment for a child - in the comedies it typically belongs to the blokes, or the single friends, who forget to account for the few stages of development an infant must go through before he can actually play football or Superheroes with an overexcited Uncle.
But in Tommy’s case this disappointment definitely belongs to him. When asked about his new baby sister he tells me he loves her and likes having a baby, but my heart reaches out to him when he sighs theatrically, looks me deep in the eye and says ‘But it wees and it poos and it wees and it poos and it wees and it poos and it wees and it poos. And it burps and it cries and it burps and it cries and it burps and it cries and it burps and it cries. And that’s all it does!’
Well at least he’s accepted the new arrival and is pleased to have a baby in the family. That’s my main objective achieved. And if we’re going to be totally honest, at the end of the day, little Tommy does have a bit of a point…!
As an Early Years Teacher I always aim to be aware of children who are going through this transition and help them adjust to their change of circumstances. (Maybe my commitment to this aspect of my job has something to do with being relegated from ‘baby of the family’ to ‘neglected middle child’ at the age of four and never quite getting over my change of status… (that’s a joke mum!) :-s ). So when I heard that Tommy’s mother was expecting I made sure to go out of my way to help him understand and accept what was happening, and gave him a little extra attention here and there to make it all a bit easier for him.
I wanted to encourage Tommy to talk about his new sibling so in the run up to the birth I asked him about the baby in mummy’s tummy and if he knew when the baby would be born (I wasn’t really expecting a three year old to give me an accurate due date, but I thought (naively?) that he may have some idea of whether it was a matter of days or months…) and I was rather surprised when he sighed in a manner that suggested he was shouldering the woes of the world (a rather usual temperament for Tommy) and uttered rather resignedly ‘twenty years’. Wow. The things I am yet to learn about pregnancy (I did later tell my sister-in-law to think herself lucky that she was only a week overdue rather than nineteen years, but I’m not sure my pearls of wisdom did anything to ease her impatience).
When the baby finally did come along, not quite twenty years later but only a couple of weeks, I took Tommy to one side to ask him about his new sister, and his disappointed was evident when he said ‘but I didn’t want a girl baby, I wanted a boy baby.’ His mournful brown eyes gazed into mine and I’m sure I detected an inkling of hope, as if he thought it was in my power to rectify the situation as he desired. We had a little chat about things and I covered all the standard topics until he was ready to run off and find the Spiderman suit, and I pondered on how the whole experience may affect him. I wasn’t too sure how he was really feeling about the recent arrival so I decided to keep an open mind, play it by ear and just be aware; I felt pretty prepared to support him as he became ‘big brother’ rather than ‘little baby’. But there was one thing I hadn’t considered. That was disappointment.
I don’t mean disappointment at having a baby in the family, but disappointment about how little a new born can actually do. We’ve all seen it on tv; think of ‘Friends’ when baby Ben is born - the crew cooed over him for a full five minutes before deciding that he didn’t really do much and opting for coffee in Central Perk over oohing and aahing for the next few hours. But I’ve never before accounted for that disappointment for a child - in the comedies it typically belongs to the blokes, or the single friends, who forget to account for the few stages of development an infant must go through before he can actually play football or Superheroes with an overexcited Uncle.
But in Tommy’s case this disappointment definitely belongs to him. When asked about his new baby sister he tells me he loves her and likes having a baby, but my heart reaches out to him when he sighs theatrically, looks me deep in the eye and says ‘But it wees and it poos and it wees and it poos and it wees and it poos and it wees and it poos. And it burps and it cries and it burps and it cries and it burps and it cries and it burps and it cries. And that’s all it does!’
Well at least he’s accepted the new arrival and is pleased to have a baby in the family. That’s my main objective achieved. And if we’re going to be totally honest, at the end of the day, little Tommy does have a bit of a point…!
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