During the run up to Mothers' Day we, like all those good EY practitioners out there, themed our classroom and sessions and ruthlessly exploited the occasion to ‘develop good learning experiences for all of our children’. Alongside the card making, salt-dough creations and portraits of their mothers with massive eye lashes and no bodies was the speaking and listening exercise, which we developed from our usual practice of passing a microphone around the circle and taking it in turns to speak (this was intended to be along a theme, but I resorted to making this optional - Lula was much more interested in announcing to her peers that ‘Abdi won’t share bike’ than talking about what she enjoyed doing in nursery).
So to mark the upcoming special day we sat the children in a circle, switched the microphone for an old mobile and encouraged the children to pass the phone around and ‘call’ their mummies and tell them why they loved them.
The first few to speak in their angelic little voices actually brought tears to the TA’s eyes - ‘Hello Mummy, I love you because you give me cuddles when I fall over,’ ‘Hello Mummy, I love you because you let me get in your bed in the morning’, ‘I love you mummy because you love me lots and lots’. Ah, bless them. But then came the turn of John, who wasn’t in luck with his phone call. Holding the speaker to his ear he waited for a minute before putting the phone into his lap and turning his massive blue eyes on the Nursery Nurse.
‘No answer.’ He shrugged, fingering the phone. ‘I think she’s gone shopping. But don’t worry!’ His face lit up as the light bulb went on. ‘I’ll just send a text!’ And he tapped away on the buttons before handing the phone over to the next child, smiling with pride at solving his problem. Well, at least we could tick off something on his profile!
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
Share and Share Alike...
Trying to get 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.
Fantasy Play
Children enjoy fantasy play. That’s not a news flash. We’ve all been there, trying to help some poor child learn to read ‘the’ when Johnny totters up and tells you, in their most serious voice, that there is a big, green, hairy monster outside who is trying to eat Nabil. Further advice ensues of how you really should go out there and rescue Nabil, and you have to think on the spot to devise a plan of action that allows you to go along with their play whilst maintaining attention on Sarah who is now triumphantly shouting out ‘tu-he, tu-he, tu-he’ after dutifully segmenting and blending her sounds.
You manage to reassure Johnny that you will soon be coming along soon to fight the monster whilst endowing him with the responsibility to see that he saves Nabil himself. He trots off with his new found sense of importance, and you go back to explaining those s**ding ‘tricky words’, making a guilty promise to yourself to set aside some time to play properly with Johnny to avoid damaging his creative spirit forever.
So later on in the day you see Johnny charging around the fancy dress stand in his favourite Spiderman outfit, complete with mask and sculpted chest. He appears to be chasing himself. Score! The perfect opportunity to redeem yourself from your dismissive stance of earlier that day. Bubbling with excitement you bound over to Johnny, peer in through his eye-mask and start off with a simple ‘Hi Spiderman, what are you up to today?’ (Remember the child always directs the play…).
Johnny turn to look up at you and you see the glimmer of a frown in his widened eyes; Spiderman must be too busy to deal with interruption from the little people today. You voice something along those lines, at which point the lifts up his mask, his little face creased in confusion, and replies, in his best ‘keep this simple and don’t use big words because you are talking to an idiot’ voice, ‘Umm, I’m not Spiderman? I’m Johnny?’
'Oh,’ you reply, a little too stunned to be more eloquent. ‘Terribly sorry, my mistake…’. With one last disdainful glance Johnny lowers his mask and charges off once more, and you drift off to stop Sean trying to drink out of the soapy water tray.
(Anyone else who grew up in this country in the ‘80s remember that Heinz spaghetti ad? Excited Father: ‘And this must be … a boat then!’ Unimpressed child: No Dad, that’s a sausage’. (Discount this part if you are sitting there wondering if what I’m talking about and if I’ve finally flipped…))
You manage to reassure Johnny that you will soon be coming along soon to fight the monster whilst endowing him with the responsibility to see that he saves Nabil himself. He trots off with his new found sense of importance, and you go back to explaining those s**ding ‘tricky words’, making a guilty promise to yourself to set aside some time to play properly with Johnny to avoid damaging his creative spirit forever.
So later on in the day you see Johnny charging around the fancy dress stand in his favourite Spiderman outfit, complete with mask and sculpted chest. He appears to be chasing himself. Score! The perfect opportunity to redeem yourself from your dismissive stance of earlier that day. Bubbling with excitement you bound over to Johnny, peer in through his eye-mask and start off with a simple ‘Hi Spiderman, what are you up to today?’ (Remember the child always directs the play…).
Johnny turn to look up at you and you see the glimmer of a frown in his widened eyes; Spiderman must be too busy to deal with interruption from the little people today. You voice something along those lines, at which point the lifts up his mask, his little face creased in confusion, and replies, in his best ‘keep this simple and don’t use big words because you are talking to an idiot’ voice, ‘Umm, I’m not Spiderman? I’m Johnny?’
'Oh,’ you reply, a little too stunned to be more eloquent. ‘Terribly sorry, my mistake…’. With one last disdainful glance Johnny lowers his mask and charges off once more, and you drift off to stop Sean trying to drink out of the soapy water tray.
(Anyone else who grew up in this country in the ‘80s remember that Heinz spaghetti ad? Excited Father: ‘And this must be … a boat then!’ Unimpressed child: No Dad, that’s a sausage’. (Discount this part if you are sitting there wondering if what I’m talking about and if I’ve finally flipped…))
Spoonerisms and Gibberish...
You know when you’re talking and you lose control of your mouth and get all your words confused? You spout spoonerisms and gibberish and even though your brain is saying ‘STOP TALKING’ your mouth just won’t comply? Yes it happens to the best of us grown ups, but when we finally manage to bring our vocal cords under control we usually have some support in the guise of our friend/colleague/taxi driver; we both have a good giggle then get on with the day.
But the problem in teaching is that when one of your little angels make such a hilarious error the absolute last thing you can do is laugh. That would be heinous. You either overlook the mistake, perhaps risking a slight grin, or gently repeat the phrase with the correct grammar/language so that the standardised English takes root and flourishes in their future speech. Now that’s Good Practice in action.
But the problem is that neither of these methods take account of the difficulties of keeping a straight face for the fear of damaging a little one’s self esteem forever. And that is one of the most difficult skills a new teacher has to develop.
Maybe it doesn’t sound like much, but picture this: speaking and listening assessment day looms and although it sounds trying you’re actually quite looking forward to it. After all, it means you get to spend a few minutes alone with each child - something that is rarely experienced in the standard teaching day.
So you get Abdullahi, a bright little boy with a wonderful penchant for learning: throughout a story his eyes get wider and wider whilst his cheeks get rounder and rounder, and there’s no way his excitement will allow him to remain sitting on his bottom. Much to your despair. But anyway you take him out and settle him down on a mat, and ask him if he’ll sing ‘Incey Wincey spider’. He nods enthusiastically and takes off, serious faced and wide eyed with concentration. But there’s something not quite right with his recitation - for some reason, unbeknown to man, he has every word spot on except ‘spout’. Which he decides to replace with ‘dye’. Incy Wincy spider climbed up the water dye? Well apparently so. And, I suppose, why not?! After all, according to Thomas we are most definitely going on a bear off; there’s not a hunt in sight. I can’t even attempt to make sense of that one.
Some syntax errors are less amusing but more adorable, such as requests for a round of ‘Amay in a Wanger’, the renaming of a star fish as a sea star (which I actually think I prefer), or the christening of that furry little animal that collects acorns as a squibble. But one of the best that I have come across recently (I have to admit that it’s not one of mine, but I’m prepared to risk plagiarism charges in order to share this one with you) is of the Reception child who was trying to tell his teacher how much he loved pop corn. It just all went horribly wrong. I daren’t quote it here but I’ll give you a clue: spoonerism - p + ck = ?? . I challenge any one of you to keep a straight face to that one…
But the problem in teaching is that when one of your little angels make such a hilarious error the absolute last thing you can do is laugh. That would be heinous. You either overlook the mistake, perhaps risking a slight grin, or gently repeat the phrase with the correct grammar/language so that the standardised English takes root and flourishes in their future speech. Now that’s Good Practice in action.
But the problem is that neither of these methods take account of the difficulties of keeping a straight face for the fear of damaging a little one’s self esteem forever. And that is one of the most difficult skills a new teacher has to develop.
Maybe it doesn’t sound like much, but picture this: speaking and listening assessment day looms and although it sounds trying you’re actually quite looking forward to it. After all, it means you get to spend a few minutes alone with each child - something that is rarely experienced in the standard teaching day.
So you get Abdullahi, a bright little boy with a wonderful penchant for learning: throughout a story his eyes get wider and wider whilst his cheeks get rounder and rounder, and there’s no way his excitement will allow him to remain sitting on his bottom. Much to your despair. But anyway you take him out and settle him down on a mat, and ask him if he’ll sing ‘Incey Wincey spider’. He nods enthusiastically and takes off, serious faced and wide eyed with concentration. But there’s something not quite right with his recitation - for some reason, unbeknown to man, he has every word spot on except ‘spout’. Which he decides to replace with ‘dye’. Incy Wincy spider climbed up the water dye? Well apparently so. And, I suppose, why not?! After all, according to Thomas we are most definitely going on a bear off; there’s not a hunt in sight. I can’t even attempt to make sense of that one.
Some syntax errors are less amusing but more adorable, such as requests for a round of ‘Amay in a Wanger’, the renaming of a star fish as a sea star (which I actually think I prefer), or the christening of that furry little animal that collects acorns as a squibble. But one of the best that I have come across recently (I have to admit that it’s not one of mine, but I’m prepared to risk plagiarism charges in order to share this one with you) is of the Reception child who was trying to tell his teacher how much he loved pop corn. It just all went horribly wrong. I daren’t quote it here but I’ll give you a clue: spoonerism - p + ck = ?? . I challenge any one of you to keep a straight face to that one…
Freudian Projection
Freud wrote extensively on the subject of projection, whereby we attribute parts of our personalities, beliefs or feelings onto another. There are also many theories suggesting reasons why certain people may enter into caring professions; maybe they are unable to care for themselves as well as they really need to so substitute this need into looking after others, or maybe previous relationships of their have ruptured beyond repair so they are searching for substitutes.
I’ve never believed I fall into any of these categories, at least within the parameters of my career, until this afternoon. And now I have to wonder. Am I taking sufficient care of myself? Am I unconsciously projecting a deep rooted need to be looked after out into the classroom? Evidently, according to Jessie, I am …
So I was about to take the children outside when I saw that Jason was looking rather tearful. I stopped in my tracks and bent down to his height, then asked in my gentlest voice whether everything was ok. He hesitated then nodded, brightened up and ran off to bag the best bike. I straightened, ready to move onto my next task, when three year old Jessie came up behind me. Placing her hands gently on my thigh she said
‘Come on, I help you,’ in her sweet, caring voice, and before I could resist she gently guided me into the ‘teacher’ toilet. She gave a motherly nod then closed the door and left me in privacy.
I was rather bemused but figured I may as well make the most of the situation so flicked the lock and went to the loo, then was washing my hands when I heard someone pulling at the door handle. Pretty confident that it was Jessie I told her to wait, then went to open the door myself, figuring that she would have lost interest and moved on. So I was rather surprised that she was stood there waiting patiently, turning a face full of concern with me as I left the bathroom.
‘Are you better now?’ She asked, and it was only once I had confirmed that I was indeed ‘better’ that she smiled and skipped off, presumably content that she had done her good deed for the day.
And that was when I wondered whether I was projecting a deeper need to be cared for into looking after of my charges. Perhaps it’s about time I started to take more care of myself, as well as prioritising all their needs. But then maybe, sometimes, one’s desire to do a good deed just takes over rational thought. There was, after all, something rather reminiscent in the whole scenario of that crack about the boy scout who insisted on helping the elderly lady across the road, despite her protests to the contrary, then took off and left her stranded on the opposite side of the street to her house. But, at the end of the day, at least they all mean well … !
I’ve never believed I fall into any of these categories, at least within the parameters of my career, until this afternoon. And now I have to wonder. Am I taking sufficient care of myself? Am I unconsciously projecting a deep rooted need to be looked after out into the classroom? Evidently, according to Jessie, I am …
So I was about to take the children outside when I saw that Jason was looking rather tearful. I stopped in my tracks and bent down to his height, then asked in my gentlest voice whether everything was ok. He hesitated then nodded, brightened up and ran off to bag the best bike. I straightened, ready to move onto my next task, when three year old Jessie came up behind me. Placing her hands gently on my thigh she said
‘Come on, I help you,’ in her sweet, caring voice, and before I could resist she gently guided me into the ‘teacher’ toilet. She gave a motherly nod then closed the door and left me in privacy.
I was rather bemused but figured I may as well make the most of the situation so flicked the lock and went to the loo, then was washing my hands when I heard someone pulling at the door handle. Pretty confident that it was Jessie I told her to wait, then went to open the door myself, figuring that she would have lost interest and moved on. So I was rather surprised that she was stood there waiting patiently, turning a face full of concern with me as I left the bathroom.
‘Are you better now?’ She asked, and it was only once I had confirmed that I was indeed ‘better’ that she smiled and skipped off, presumably content that she had done her good deed for the day.
And that was when I wondered whether I was projecting a deeper need to be cared for into looking after of my charges. Perhaps it’s about time I started to take more care of myself, as well as prioritising all their needs. But then maybe, sometimes, one’s desire to do a good deed just takes over rational thought. There was, after all, something rather reminiscent in the whole scenario of that crack about the boy scout who insisted on helping the elderly lady across the road, despite her protests to the contrary, then took off and left her stranded on the opposite side of the street to her house. But, at the end of the day, at least they all mean well … !
Modelling language...
Any teacher worth their salt will tell you that modelling is one of the key strategies for helping children learn. We know that the little darlings are lying in wait at all times, watching and listening and silently building up their understanding of how to ‘be’ in this complex world. They see us doing it, ahem, ‘right’ and use their imitative skills to do it right themselves.
As a deliberate teaching strategy modelling in extremely effective - it’s supportive, encourages children to use their initiative in a safe environment and enables them to understand what we are expecting of them. But outside of ‘structured learning’ evidence of modelled behaviour can be most entertaining.
We all smile when we see toddlers hoovering the grass, making themselves a breakfast of plastic bread and broccoli or paying for their groceries in the shop (where they inevitably either manage to buy an obscene amount of food for about thirteen pence or spend half their life savings on a tomato) but the real hilarity comes in their speech…
There is nothing guaranteed to put a smile on an adult
’s face like being spoken to by a three year old CEO or a demanding five year old mother hen. And there must have been something in the water in my nursery today as they were all at it.
Three year old Natalia was having a very busy morning painting the sea and must have spent the best part of an hour slopping all shades of blue over the massive strip of bubble wrap, but it seemed that she wasn’t quite as prepared to paint the whole Atlantic as I thought. I was helping some other children with their counting when I caught sight of a dangerously overloaded paintbrush out of the corner of my eye. I turned to tell Natalia to keep her paint at the painting table but she got in there first. ‘Umm’ she began pointedly, ‘I want a little help here.’ The tone of her voice indicated that she was not to be argued with, and her demand certainly wasn’t optional. She thrust the blue brush into my hand, rolled her eyes and went back to the task in hand, eyeballing me to make sure I followed. Which, of course, I dutifully did.
Then there was Amira, who was desperate to dress Eric up in a witch’s dress which, rather understandably, he wasn’t too keen to do. She followed him round the Nursery for a fair amount of time trying to get him to take the dress before she got fed up and came over to me, her face set in her best ‘I am not amused’ expression. Throwing the dress onto my lap she tutted. ‘Right, is Eric going to wear this or not?’ Then she folded her arms and glared at me. ‘Well,’ I tentatively began, ‘I’m not sure he wants to wear the witch’s dress Amira. Why don’t you ask Issy?’ Amira seemed to ponder this over for a few minutes before relenting. She picked the dress up and headed off towards Issy, shaking her head and muttering ‘boys!’ under her breath.
But my favourite one today had to be refereeing the disagreement between Cathy and Khadijah over who was the biggest scaredy cat. The ‘you are a scaredy cat’, ’no I’m not you are a scaredy cat’ went back and forth a number of times until Cathy got bored. She prepared to move on to help the TA cut the oranges, but not without a final toss of the head and ‘harumph’ followed by a disparaging look at her friend. ‘You are such a scaredy cat if ever I saw one!’ she declared, before marching off and leaving me, as usual, to pick up the pieces.
As a deliberate teaching strategy modelling in extremely effective - it’s supportive, encourages children to use their initiative in a safe environment and enables them to understand what we are expecting of them. But outside of ‘structured learning’ evidence of modelled behaviour can be most entertaining.
We all smile when we see toddlers hoovering the grass, making themselves a breakfast of plastic bread and broccoli or paying for their groceries in the shop (where they inevitably either manage to buy an obscene amount of food for about thirteen pence or spend half their life savings on a tomato) but the real hilarity comes in their speech…
There is nothing guaranteed to put a smile on an adult
’s face like being spoken to by a three year old CEO or a demanding five year old mother hen. And there must have been something in the water in my nursery today as they were all at it.
Three year old Natalia was having a very busy morning painting the sea and must have spent the best part of an hour slopping all shades of blue over the massive strip of bubble wrap, but it seemed that she wasn’t quite as prepared to paint the whole Atlantic as I thought. I was helping some other children with their counting when I caught sight of a dangerously overloaded paintbrush out of the corner of my eye. I turned to tell Natalia to keep her paint at the painting table but she got in there first. ‘Umm’ she began pointedly, ‘I want a little help here.’ The tone of her voice indicated that she was not to be argued with, and her demand certainly wasn’t optional. She thrust the blue brush into my hand, rolled her eyes and went back to the task in hand, eyeballing me to make sure I followed. Which, of course, I dutifully did.
Then there was Amira, who was desperate to dress Eric up in a witch’s dress which, rather understandably, he wasn’t too keen to do. She followed him round the Nursery for a fair amount of time trying to get him to take the dress before she got fed up and came over to me, her face set in her best ‘I am not amused’ expression. Throwing the dress onto my lap she tutted. ‘Right, is Eric going to wear this or not?’ Then she folded her arms and glared at me. ‘Well,’ I tentatively began, ‘I’m not sure he wants to wear the witch’s dress Amira. Why don’t you ask Issy?’ Amira seemed to ponder this over for a few minutes before relenting. She picked the dress up and headed off towards Issy, shaking her head and muttering ‘boys!’ under her breath.
But my favourite one today had to be refereeing the disagreement between Cathy and Khadijah over who was the biggest scaredy cat. The ‘you are a scaredy cat’, ’no I’m not you are a scaredy cat’ went back and forth a number of times until Cathy got bored. She prepared to move on to help the TA cut the oranges, but not without a final toss of the head and ‘harumph’ followed by a disparaging look at her friend. ‘You are such a scaredy cat if ever I saw one!’ she declared, before marching off and leaving me, as usual, to pick up the pieces.
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