Search results matching tags 'preschool' and 'love'

an insult to preschool teachers (and working mothers) everywhere

Anonymous — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 20:54:34 GMT

I like the fashion blog She’s Still Got It, so I visit it at Cafe Mom fairly regularly. While there this morning, I stumbled upon this article: “6 Lies Parents Tell Themselves About Preschool,” by Amy Reiter.

Here’s what she had to say, prompted by the story of the little British boy who left his nursery school and walked home alone:

Here are six lies we tell ourselves each day before we drop our toddlers off at preschool or daycare: 1.    He’ll be totally safe: Probably, sure, but of course, we cannot know that. Anything could happen: He could run out of the building, like Alfie. He could get left behind on a field trip. There could be a fire. A teacher could have a psychopathic ex-boyfriend. Unlikely, but who knows?

2.    He won’t miss us: He will miss us, terribly, even if he’s not the type to cry about it. Perhaps especially if he’s not the type to cry about it.

3.    We won’t miss him: We will miss him, terribly, even if we’re not the type to cry about it. Perhaps especially if we’re not the type to cry about it.

4.    He’s happier at preschool than he is with us: Possible, but unlikely. Most kids prefer to be with their moms (or dads), no matter how bedraggled, sleep-deprived and short-tempered she (or he) may be on any given day. Then again, it is probably a fair rationale to remind yourself about the benefits of socialization.

5.    The teacher will treat him as if he were her own: She may be good to him, very, very good. But she’s got a whole room of kids to look after. She may not take the time to remove the crusts of his sandwich for him the way he likes it. Then again, that may not be such a bad thing. (See socialization, above.)

6.    There really is no other option: There is always another option – though giving up your day job and falling behind on your mortgage may not be a terribly appealing one. But perhaps by acknowledging that we all must make the choices that work for our lives – and that those choices inevitably involve tradeoffs – can help us forgive ourselves for making them.

Boy, was I ***. If you’re interested, you can scroll down to read my comment, and the comments of others.

I am preschool teacher, hear me roar.

from refugee camp to my classroom

Anonymous — Sun, 13 Mar 2011 18:38:07 GMT

We have a new student, a tiny girl. I’m in love with her already. I’ll call her “Starling” for the purposes of this blog.

Starling was born in a refugee camp, and came to the States just last year, when she was three. She had never been in school before, but showed great adaptability and poise on her first day. She was so confident that she actually just followed a bunch of kids off the bus and up to the third floor, where the big kids (5th-8th) are. One of them, a kind 5th grade girl, found her, looked at her bus tag, held her hand, and brought her down to me. Starling seemed not in the least disturbed.

I showed her where her cubby would be, and from that moment on she knew exactly where to put her jacket and backpack. She doesn’t have a journal yet (I’ll buy her one today), so I gave her paper and crayons, and had my assistant teacher sit with her. Starling looked grave, and would not draw. She sat, and she watched.

At morning meeting I reviewed the letters and sounds we know, and to my surprise, she called out the names of most of them. (Her father told me later that her brother has been teaching her.) I just love the big brothers and sisters in so many immigrant families; they get the little ones ready for my class, and it’s wonderful. Some families believe education and doing well in school are important.

When her father stopped by to see how his baby was doing, I asked him to explain to her that the signal for “I need to go to the bathroom” in my class is just the thumbs-up sign. He asked her if she understood, and she gave him a thumbs up, and went back to what she was doing.

I can’t wait to see what she learns this week.

how I manipulate my preschoolers’ impressionable young minds

Anonymous — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 19:53:28 GMT

Me: …..And after story time, it will be time to go home.

Various students: Yay!!!

Me: Oh, really? I think it’s kind of sad. I miss you guys when you aren’t here.

Various students: (silent, puzzling this over)

Me: I love it when we are all here together.

Student 1: Yeah, I love school.

Student 2: I love school, too!

Student 3: I miss you when I’m not at school.

Me: I love school, too. That’s why I decided to become a teacher. I get to come to school and be with you guys every day, and it’s great!

Students 4, 5, and 6: I love school, too!

Student 7: Yay, it’s time for school!

Student 8: I love you, Mrs. X.

*****************

See? Total triumph.

Valentine’s Day has lasted two weeks in my room

Anonymous — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 21:48:25 GMT

Valentine’s Day has come and gone in my room, but it really was not a one day celebration.

The last time I bought wine, I asked for two empty cardboard boxes with the wine bottle dividers still inside. Then my Americorps volunteer decorated them on the outside, and put sticker labels on each compartment with the children’s names.

The writing center was then stocked with stickers, cards, markers, stamps, and word cards, and the kids got to work. They made valentines for each other, and for the adults in the room, and then would go say to someone, “check your mailbox!” The best part was that the kid who received a valentine note would always say thank you to whoever made it. When I made valentines for the children, they would hug me. When they made valentines for me, they would hug me some more.

The writing center can only fit four people at a time, so we had to turn the art center over to valentine-making, as well. So almost every day for the last two weeks, we had up to ten people at a time making valentines for their classmates and teachers.

It was a love-fest, and I loved every minute of it. Plus, it seems like a great segue into writer’s workshop, which will start in the next week or two. If they didn’t before, everyone now knows they can write.

The truest, hardest part

Anonymous — Sun, 23 Jan 2011 21:48:00 GMT

Plato said "you can learn more about a person from an hour of play than in a year of conversation." If this is true, then, (besides parents), who knows a preschooler better than their teacher?
The fact of the matter is that teachers who work with children under the age of 5 are parents in microcosm, (or at the very least like a pseudo Aunt or Uncle). No, these children are not our own flesh and blood, we don't tuck them in at night, we don't get to watch them grow up, we don't have to provide for them. Teachers become immune to puppy dog eyes, alligator tears, and adorable pleas for nonsense things, unlike most parents. However, for a good preschool teacher, most of your life revolves around these kids. I see most of these kids (during awake hours) 6-7 hours a day, for more than 250 days a year, (Monday- Friday, September through September). I know all of their interests, I know all about their family, I know what they are afraid of, what makes them sad, what makes them happy, what foods they like and what foods they don't, what they are allergic to, who their best friend is and when they switch best friends. I know these children more deeply than I know some of my own friends, because preschoolers aren't guarded and don't keep secrets the way adults do. I plan my lessons based on their passions, and our days around their interests. I can tell by the way a child enters the room how their day is so far, and I can tell when something is wrong. I know when a child hates all red fruits and vegetables. Children tell me when they are worried because Mommy is getting married. They tell me when Mommy and Daddy are fighting. They tell me about being shuffled back and forth between parents (foster and biological, divorced moms and dads). They tell me when they fight with their sister. They tell me when they have a bad dream. They tell me about all of their amazing adventures with their parents, and about playing tea with their sister in the living room. I know what makes each child laugh when they are sad, when they need a hug, and when they need to be left alone.
The hard part of being a teacher is that these little bodies become your friends and your family. You know them for a whole year and see them more than 2000 hours a year. They have wiped their noses on you, cried on your shoulder, drooled on your leg, accidentally spit food on your face, sometimes hit you, sometimes kicked you, thrown up on you, and you love them all unconditionally.
Some children I connect with the moment I meet them, others it takes a few weeks to fully connect with them, still others a few months, but I have never had a child in my class that I didn't connect with, and never had a child that I wasn't sad to see go. Like I said, this is the hardest part of being a teacher.
Every year you fall in love with the kids, and you fall in love with your class. There are a few that you get the privilege of seeing after they leave your class, or even more rare that you get to stay a part of their life; but most of the time, these precious little beings that you have centered a year of your life around, just leave. That's it.
I had a child leave my class the other day, to go to a school closer to home, in his own school district. It is the same whenever a child leaves my class, no matter why, and no matter when; At the same time it is different whenever a child leaves my class because my relationship with each child is different, because each child is different, precious, and special.
When they leave, I have to smile, wish them the best, be excited for them, and help them to be excited for this next, new part of their life because if we do anything else we are not serving that child well. I want to be sad, I want to tell them that I will miss them horribly, (because I will), and that I will remember them forever (because I will), but what I say is "I will miss you, but I am glad you are excited for your new school, I hope you will love it," because this isn't about me, and it never was. This is about them, and it always was. They might remember me, and they might not, but they were my "friends" and my students, and I will always remember them, and hope that each one has a great life.
I am convinced that real teachers don't choose their profession, in fact many of them might try to avoid it, but it chooses them, because bringing love to a classroom is not something that can be learned. I know going back on Monday, that everything will be the same, but I will still notice the child's absence a few times each day, as will the other children, who will ask for reminders of where he is and why he isn't "here." They won't be "sad" but they will miss his presence and sometimes it takes months for their little minds to not calculate his absence as not being out of place, (where as for adults, it only takes a few days, but the feelings are the same).

I leave you with a quote from "Children of Eden," by Stephen Schwartz: "... but the hardest part of love... the truest part of love... is the letting go."

*please note: I am not advocating that teachers act like parents, or are parents, or try to "replace parents." Parents are parents and teachers are teachers and any good teacher knows the boundaries and does not cross them. In the early years, children really come to depend on their teacher and develop a more close- knit relationship with them than teachers of school- age children. This being said, a good teacher brings love to their classroom with only appropriate emotional ties and attachments, and NEVER develops an attachment that would make it difficult for the child to move on, or that would effect the teachers effectiveness or demeanor in the classroom.

lucky

Anonymous — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 12:47:04 GMT

I have been sick this week, and missed a few days of school. After being home Monday and Tuesday, I came back Wednesday to a class that was visibly relieved to have me back. Things are so routine-driven with me around, I imagine it could be a little bit hard to spend two mornings with two different subs who don’t know our routines at all.

Anyway, near the end of the morning I went to pick them up from Gym class, and they were already in their ABC line, waiting for me. As I approached, only the first two in the line could see me, and they both just lit up from inside. The looks of adoration those two gave me made me feel like a combo of Movie Star and Mommy.

I’m very lucky. I love this job.

new kids, old teacher

Anonymous — Wed, 22 Sep 2010 20:51:36 GMT

In the last two days I got three new kids. One of them was flagged as probably needing a referral for possible special ed services, another probably needs to be referred for speech services, and the third doesn’t speak any English, acts as if rules don’t apply, and is both independent (yay) and impulsive (sigh). All three of them are very cute and sweet, however, so they will fit in nicely with all my other cute, sweet kids.

I feel like I’m already behind. I’ve been thinking about new teachers, and how they work really long hours, and how I….um, don’t. Partly it’s because I don’t really need to, as an experienced teacher, part of it is because I want time for myself and for my family, and part of it is because I’m just so *** tired. My migraines have not been great lately, and my allergies are now knocking me flat. I can’t stand the idea of missing school so early in the year, but maybe I will have to. It’s probably not the greatest to have a teacher who feels (and perhaps acts) like she is far, far underwater.

However, today after the kindergartners came out, a few kids made a circle holding hands and started playing a game where they’d jump in the air and crash on the ground, still holding hands. They were getting rough and pulling each other’s arms, so I showed them how to play Ring Around a Rosie. Seriously, you’d think that none of them have ever played it before. Actually, probably none of them ever have. Each time we played more of my students and more of the kindergartners joined in. I showed them how to play it without pulling or crashing into anyone when we all…fall…DOWN! It was kind of wonderful, watching the children so happy about such a simple old game. I kept singing, and kept ringing around that rosie, even though I was losing my voice, and getting really tired.

Also on a nice note, Apple came over to hug me at recess. About 8 times. “Mrs. X!” she would exclaim with joy, and wrap her arms around me. She showed me how she can now count to five, which was great. (Her new teacher is thinking about referring her to special ed, which I was going to do but I dropped the ball. I’ll give her my documentation.) Squash came over, and pointed out another boy from our class last year. “Yeah,” I said, grinning, “but I don’t think he loves me anymore.” Squash said, “I still love you, Mrs. X!” Then he hugged me.

So I’m tired and feel like death warmed over, but I do feel loved.

Apple’s progress

Anonymous — Mon, 03 May 2010 21:25:03 GMT

Apple is the sweet baby of our class. She spoke no English at the beginning of the year, and was barely comprehensible in Spanish, either. She knew no colors or numbers or shapes or letters in either language. She said nothing, but just smiled a lot. She had coping skills, and was always in the right place at the right time, gamely trying to do whatever it was we were doing.

Then she fell in love with me, and I started getting daily (even hourly) hugs from her. She started to come out of her shell, and she started speaking English, one word at a time. She got excited about writing and started writing me daily love letters, filled with her writing-like scribbles (that went left to right, top to bottom).

At writer’s workshop she understood that she was to tell stories with her drawings. At first she drew a lot of pictures of her family (her mom was always complete with boobs and nipples), and then she started to branch off. Now she draws pictures of stories about food that she has eaten with her family.

She knows the color purple. Miss Slinger taught her how to write her name a few weeks ago. She can cut with scissors. She can count to five in English. She can say sentences with three or four words.

And she is still always happy. She is our little ray of sunshine and I just love her.

well, apple loves me

Anonymous — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 01:46:56 GMT

Just when you want to get good and grumpy, some preschooler goes and cheers you up.

Apple is a cute, chubby, quiet little girl in my class. She speaks no English, and isn’t all that coherent in Spanish, either. (She may be heading for a special ed evaluation, because she hasn’t learned much so far this year in terms of basic skills. She has, however, learned how to follow classroom routines, and she’s really good at playing with legos.)

Apple fell in love with me over the weekend. Not sure why, but she did. She came in Monday morning and threw her arms around me, and said, “Mr. X!” with joy. (She can’t say “Mrs.” for some reason, so I’m Mr. X.) Every day since then she has been showering me with love and hugs.

Today she proudly gave me some writing she had done.

“Oh, is this for me? Thank you, Apple! Can you read it to me, please?”

Apple stared at her paper. It was covered with pretend writing. She thought, then traced her finger along her scribbles, left to right, top to bottom, and read:

“Mr. X, Mr. X, Mr. X, Mr. X.”

How’s that for a love letter?

yes David, I love you

Anonymous — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 20:58:48 GMT

David is struggling. He came off the bus angry today — I found out later that someone at home had yelled at him. I was trying to line up my class to go to gym and he got off the bus late and started laughing and running through the halls. I let Nan go after him (walking, of course; we don’t chase children), and I went down to gym, and he eventually showed up, and was calm.

Nan is a miracle worker.

But when I picked them up, Nan whispered to me that gym was hard for everybody, and that David was hitting a lot and had to take a time out.

He was fine in meeting — he loves morning meeting. He interrupts me eagerly with all kinds of answers. He understands everything I’m doing with the calendar and the morning message, and some days, it seems like he’s the only one. We wrote down what we know about bugs on a chart and he loved that.

Then he suddenly punched the kid next to him. So I said he had to take a time out and he wouldn’t go, and then he ran out of the room. Nan, again with the miracles, got him to come back and sit in the chair, and when I said, “are you ready to come back?” he smiled and nodded yes, quite seriously.

He hit again on the way to recess, punched a classmate in the face on the playground, and had to sit on the bench the rest of the time. He wailed with grief when recess was over. It was really short today because we had such a hard time getting lined up and outside.

Then when Nan was helping him get his coat, he said, “Teacher!” and when I looked back at him, he blew me a kiss.

Yes, David, I love you.