Motivation 401.
Some teachers seem to have ways of getting children to take charge of their own learning. Of course, some parents do, too, and some children seem naturally self-motivated. Whether we give most of the credit to teachers, parents, children, or nature, it's pretty impressive to watch a child who has transcended the need for motivational strategies. It feels good, and it makes one wonder whether all children could be that way, and if not, why not.
It could be argued that no one is really self-motivated. People are motivated by their experiences and perceptions, which do involve people and things outside themselves. But that may be nit-picking; there are people who connect easily with motivational forces, and we call them "self-motivated."
Still, the job of a teacher is certainly easier if children have their own reasons for wanting to learn what the teacher wants them to learn. Of course, all children can be said to be self-motivated, but not all are motivated to do what the teacher has in mind.
So in one sense, no one is self-motivated, and in another sense, everyone is. And I think both points are useful in planning lessons. One time, I was trying to explain to third-graders what "taxation without representation" was all about, and why colonists were so angry about it. It was almost recess time, and I got an idea. I decided to take a vote. We could go out to recess early if a majority of voters wanted to. But you had to be over ten years old to vote. My teaching assistant and I were the only ones in the room over ten years old, and we voted not to have an early recess. Suddenly, the children understood why the colonists had been so angry (incidentally, we did go out to recess early).
A teacher may be very motivated to teach something that children are not at all motivated to learn. It's too bad when that happens, but teachers are supposed to anticipate that problem, and either figure out how to motivate children, or forego the lesson. Teachers can get so excited about what they want to teach that they forget about children's motivation or lack thereof, and they bomb. I write this from personal experience.
Good grades can motivate children. So can other artificial bribes. Children work so that they can get stickers, stars, privileges, and more. When these rewards are used, they are supposed to be phased out; children are supposed to find that the learning or behavior that gets them those external rewards is actually pretty rewarding in its own right. If not, an awful lot of time and/or money is wasted on bribes.
Bad grades and other threats can also provide motivation, but only if children perceive a feasible way to avoid failing. If not, children come to think of the bad stuff as what school is all about, and look forward to getting it over with.
When teachers get bogged down in these attempts to artificially motivate children, they can easily forget that the best lessons are the ones that are their own rewards - that learning itself is actually fun.
The Power of Appreciation 402.
I just read a friend's response to one of my articles. He liked it. He thought it was insightful and well said. He's going to show it to some people he knows. There are many ways growing up has changed me, but my reaction to appreciation hasn't changed so much. I may not blush as easily as I used to, and I've learned sophisticated ways to articulate my appreciation of appreciation I get. But it still makes me want to do more of whatever was appreciated.
So now, inspired by my friend's words, I'm writing another article. And maybe someone will tell me that this one is good, too. Of course, I won't be able to show my appreciation for that appreciation the way I am now - by writing another article about appreciation. That could start to get kind of redundant.
When we don't feel appreciated, we're apt to do less. But when people tell us and/or show us that they like what we do, we do more. Oh, we can tell ourselves and others that we have our own reasons for what we do - that we don't rely on appreciation. And there can be some truth to that. But still, doesn't it feel good when someone tells you that you've done something well?
Children usually know what they're trying to do, and know approximately to what degree they're succeeding. If they're deeply involved in what they're doing, they can seem oblivious to comments about the quality of what they're doing. They can even be annoyed by comments; they'd rather focus on the project at hand than listen to someone else who's telling them what a good job they're doing.
But more often, I think, children do want to hear that they're doing well. And they want to be able to believe it; it usually doesn't take long for them to figure out whether you really mean it. My friend's comment about my article means more to me because he sometimes challenges my thinking; he doesn't give me rave reviews every time. And when he doesn't - when he takes issue with what I write - it's easier to think about his challenges because I know challenges aren't all he gives me.
Of course, I'm an adult, and not all of my thoughts and behaviors necessarily match those of children. But I think my reaction to hearing that someone likes what I've done is substantially similar to the reactions we can expect from children - I like it, I want it to happen again, and I'll do what I can to get it to happen again. So when we see or hear children doing things that we hope they'll do more, let's be sure to let them know about it.

The Power of Put-downs 403.
I remember what it was like to get lots of put-downs. Some people may have been kidding; I often responded to put-downs with humor, and maybe some people thought that meant I wasn't bothered. In fact, sometimes I wasn't bothered; if people made fun of aspects of myself I didn't consider important anyway, that was okay. And I have a good friend who knows how to gently make fun of some aspects of me that I consider more important. If people offer us criticism, whether humorous or not, in ways that communicate caring, the criticism can help us grow.
But those aren't put-downs. Put-downs, whether intentional or not, make us feel worse about ourselves. In my last article, I wrote about the power of sincere appreciation. If we were affected by that without also being affected by put-downs, we'd be much better off. And some people do manage to drink in what praise they get without letting the other stuff bother them too much.
I have known adults who have said that put-downs are good for children - that children need to learn to "take it." I've also known adults who have bitter memories of their parents' and teachers' attempts to train them to "take it." And I've known many children who have suffered because people have said things to them that hurt. Self-esteem - especially young self-esteem - can be very fragile. Handle with care.
It really does depend on the person. There are people who very quickly learn to love and respect themselves - almost invariably with the support of the people close to them. Some of those lucky people also quickly learn
how to tease and be teased without hurting or being hurt. But even those people have to consider the objects of their teasing, or they'll risk hurting people they don't mean to hurt. And some people who seem to be doing fine are secretly hurting.
I've also worked with children who don't even seem to take it so well. Some adults call these children "hypersensitive," but I try not to. I don't find that label very useful. If a child is easily insulted by words that other children take in stride, my approach is to try harder not to insult him/her. I've written about seeing the child in the adult, but here's a case where I try to see the adult in the child. I've known too many adults who have wished their childhood traumas had been taken more seriously - not brushed off as "hypersensitivity."
We do want children to grow up able to take the good with the bad. Not everyone they encounter is necessarily going to think carefully about what are appropriate, sensitive things to say. But there's no short cut to building self-esteem, and attempts to train children to "take it" usually make things worse.

Debunking Debunking 404.
It wasn't too long ago that we all learned what great people Lincoln, Washington, Columbus, and all those guys were. Teachers taught that these people were heroes, and hinted that we should try to be like them. And since we didn't have to go to school on the days dedicated to these people, we had our own reason for considering them heroic, whether or not we accepted the reasons our teachers gave us.
Later, we heard that Lincoln was more concerned with preserving the union than freeing the slaves. And George Washington had slaves. Christopher Columbus, we heard, was a mass murderer. Just as we had swallowed the myths that had turned these human beings into heroes, it didn't take long to swallow alternative myths. So now Lincoln and Washington were not so great, and Columbus was much worse.
Until a recent conversation I had with Phil Hoose, who is doing research about Columbus, I had swallowed the alternative Columbus myth - that Columbus was a bad man who crossed the ocean blue, got gold, killed lots of natives, and took some back with him as slaves. He was despicable, and the only appropriate way to "celebrate" Columbus Day was to mourn the death of all the natives killed by Columbus.
Phil is studying Columbus' journal, and discovering that Columbus was a human being. He thought about what was important, questioned his decisions, and was, among other things, a product of his times. We're all products of our times. People of the future may look back on us as people who paid taxes to finance the wholesale murder of other people (war). They may see us as people who regularly killed mammals, birds, and fish, chopped them up, and ate them. We don't know how people of the future will think of us. Sure, we get involved in charities, earth-saving projects, and all that, but they may not focus on that.
I hear many children who have learned how terrible Columbus was. Considering the extent to which Columbus-debunking has gone, it's surprising that children still get a day off on the second Monday in October. In a way, it's a good sign that we've taken another look at the myth we once created. But we've replaced it with another myth - that of Columbus the Terrible.
Like many of you, I'm easily impressed by a few facts. I like simplicity, and I'd rather think of Columbus or any other historical figure as either a hero or a villain. But it isn't that simple. My own ancestors probably mostly lived on the eastern hemisphere. There was probably a time when they were taken as slaves. Some of them were persecuted. But maybe they were enslaved by people who also created one of the first universities, and persecuted by people who also created a lot we humans can be proud of. I'll bet some of your ancestors had troubles, too. Like the present, the past was complicated, and we need to follow up our efforts to debunk it by debunking some of the debunking efforts, or at least putting them into perspective.

Rudeness 405.
People have a sometimes annoying tendency to consider their own needs and wants higher priorities than the needs and wants of others. The reason that can be so annoying is that we other people have our own needs and priorities, or, in our finest moments, we think about the interests of still other people, or other creatures.
When we're not annoyed by the tendency, we call it "assertiveness." Many of us work hard to get ourselves to learn to assert our interests effectively. And if we do learn to do so, we stand a better chance of having our lives work well. Incidentally, people whose lives are working well often tend to be likeable, generous people. We may recognize their assertiveness, but we tend not to say bad things about it.
But sometimes we do get annoyed. If an adult is assertive in a way that is annoying, we may call that assertiveness "brash," "cantankerous," or any of a host of unflattering adjectives. Of course, it's a matter of personal taste; what bothers one person may charm another. But there are some people whose focus on their own priorities charms few; they aren't popular, but popularity may or may not be one of their priorities.
If adults want to be self-centered more than they want to be liked, they're free to follow their bliss. What they say, how they say it, and what they do reflect their dedication to self, and if you don't like it, you can take your business elsewhere.
But children, who don't have as much power as adults, have to be more careful. If a child comes across as "inappropriately" assertive, the child is apt to be called "rude," and scolded and/or punished. We don't tell adults to go to their rooms until they can learn to speak more politely (although we may be tempted), but children often face that and other attempts to alter their styles.
As a parent and teacher, I've sometimes been criticized for what I let children "get away with" saying or doing. But I really think it's a matter of personal style. I like to hear children asserting themselves; I usually don't consider such self-assertion "rude." Once, I was supervising a field trip to the tide pools in Nahant. It was a very hot day, and the tide pool creatures had mostly opted to stay in the ocean. I heard a child complain to a teacher, "It's too hot! I want to go back to school!" The teacher responded, "That was inappropriate!" Funny, but I had been thinking the same "inappropriate" thought.
I do want to help children learn effective ways to communicate their own priorities, and I do want to help them learn to think about other people's. But I'm less likely than some adults to think of a child as "rude." Children are trying to figure out how to get along and get by. If some of their efforts bother us, I think we owe it to them to express our annoyance. But not rudely.

Teachers Who'd Rather Not Be Teachers 406.
There are teachers who absolutely love teaching. There are some who don't exactly love it, but think it's okay. And there are some people who wish they could find jobs as teachers, but so far, haven't been able to. There are many aspects of teaching many teachers consider delightful, and while it does depend somewhat on the children, the school, the other teachers, the day, and many other factors, a lot of us basically like our work.
But some don't. They consider the job to be just a job - something they've got to do. They haven't found ways to make ends meet that bring them joy, so they come to work in school each day, and do what they need to do to earn their paychecks. Then they go home, maybe do a little preparation for the next day, and then, if they're lucky, maybe do something they do enjoy. They look forward to weekends and vacations more eagerly than some of their colleagues.
Children who end up in these teachers' classes tend not to be very happy about it. Some rightly see the problem as mainly the teacher's problem, and do their best to get through the year. Maybe next year will be better. Others blame themselves, thinking that the teacher would enjoy teaching if only the children were better. And there are some children determined to please the teacher even if that seems like an impossible dream. Some of them join the teacher in blaming other children for the problem.
I heard, during my teaching career, that such teachers built character in children. I've heard that some parents specifically ask to have their children in such teachers' classes. I guess the parents don't remember liking their teachers, and think that that's the way it's supposed to be. Maybe they think that if a teacher seems to be having fun, that's a sign of lack of commitment to the "real" job. In fact, of the few teachers I know who have been asked to resign, there's not one who had been accused of being boring or oppressive. So I guess there must be some job security connected with not liking teaching.
I think that I unconsciously believed that the teachers I knew who didn't like teaching were doing a better job than I was. Test scores didn't back up that belief; children in my classes did just as well on standardized tests as children in unhappy teachers' classes. But the Puritan ethic must have had some effect on my self-image - I may have been a "fun" teacher, but I wasn't one of the really "good" ones.
As a volunteer, I've sometimes worked with teachers who haven't seemed to enjoy their work. They've assigned lots of "seatwork," enforced lots of rules, and gotten some parents to think they were great. But staying with the same children as they move through the grades, I know the children. And I know these children enjoy school more and learn more when their teachers enjoy teaching.


Fond Memories 407.
I have lots of fond memories of my childhood. It was a pretty happy childhood. I loved the place where I grew up, a big house in the woods. I loved the neighborhood baseball games, the singing in the car, the trip to Yellowstone Park...I could go on and on. I learned, at a pretty early age, that there were families that weren't having as much fun as we were, and I felt sorry for them, but what I remember most is enjoying being who I was and having the family I had.
Of course, we remember best what we want to remember, and though I can easily conjure up memories of fights, punishments, boredom, and other features of my childhood that sound less like "good old days," I'm a pretty happy fellow, and I think my childhood had a lot to do with that. Psychotherapists tend not to want to hear a lot about the good times we've had, just as podiatrists tend not to want to hear much about how good our ears feel, but I'm not in therapy right now. At least for the sake of this article, let's say I had a happy childhood.
If you have fond memories of your childhood, you may want to make sure your children grow up to also have fond memories. The problem is, times have changed. The old swimming hole you used to like to jump into may have been filled in. Or it may be that your children would much rather go to some pool or beach, and really don't want to have to deal with your nostalgia. Besides, the standing water you liked to splash around in may have had stuff growing in it that wasn't too healthy for you.
From what I know of my parents' childhoods, they did not struggle to make sure we had the same kind. My parents didn't go to Disneyland as children; there was no Disneyland back then, and I suspect that their parents couldn't have taken them to California, anyway. But television (another new thing) had gotten my sister and me to want to go to Disneyland, and my parents took us there. They were trying to give us a chance to have fun, and maybe build fond memories.
My wife and I took our children to Disney World. We all enjoyed it. Of course, we each had our individual favorite parts. I liked "If You Had Wings" and "It's a Small World." Lara, my younger daughter, wanted to go on Space Mountain, and had to be accompanied by an adult. Neither my wife nor I wanted to go on that, so we flipped a coin. Space Mountain may be one of Lara's fond memories, but it's not one of mine.
I've sort of danced around my main point in this article. My main point is that we may not be able to neatly package all of our fond memories and hand them down to our children. For all we know, they may grow up to get nostalgic about video games and Chuck E. Cheese. But I'm not worried. They'll also remember feeling loved and cared for. Neither Chuck E. Cheese nor Mickey Mouse can hold a candle to that.

Borrowing Across a Zero, Part One 408.
I've always enjoyed teaching children to do what I've called "borrowing across a zero." It's what you do when you solve a problem like 302 - 158. I've always told children a story, using the digits involved as characters. I know this approach bothers some mathematicians, who like to keep mathematics pure, and I know the term "borrowing" isn't used as much as it used to be, but my story has helped some children, and I'd like to tell it to you. When I tell it, I use different voices for the different digits, but you do what you want.
Once upon a time, there were two ones. They were very happy in the ones place, and thought that's where they'd always be. The ones place was small, but ones are small anyway, and don't need much space.
But one day, one of the ones, whose name was Adeen, said to the other, named Uno, "I think there's eight ones downstairs. And I think we're supposed to subtract them." Adeen and Uno were used to subtracting, but so far, they'd only subtracted zero, one, and sometimes two (they didn't like subtracting two, because when they did, they had nothing left).
'We can't subtract eight!" cried Uno. "We're only two! And don't tell me we're going to go to the tens place to borrow ten. That place always makes me nervous."
"There isn't any other way to do it," answered Adeen. "The tens have always been nice about letting us have one ten. And the job has to be done. We can't have those eight ones living downstairs. The place is too small for all ten of us. Let's go. I'll do the talking."
Uno knew that Adeen was right, and agreed to go along, but did not agree to like it. So they went to the tens place and Adeen knocked on the door. There was a long silence. Adeen knocked again. More silence. "There's nobody home," said Adeen.
That delighted Uno. "Let's come back tomorrow. They've probably gone fishing or something."
"No," said Adeen. "I know what we're supposed to do. We're supposed to go to the hundreds place." And Adeen pointed to the huge building next door.
"We don't need a hundred," said Uno. "We just need ten."
"Right," replied Adeen, "but every hundred has ten tens."
"Yes, but they're not going to break up a set just for us." Uno was already nervous, and the thought of having to go to the hundreds place was not helping. Still, on they went.
At the hundreds place, Adeen knocked on the door. The sound of the knocked echoed, and both Uno and Adeen trembled. Soon, they could hear footsteps. Loud, heavy footsteps.
To find out what happened next, read my next article, "Borrowing Across a Zero, Part Two."

Borrowing Across a Zero, Part Two 409.
If you haven't read my last article, I recommend that you do, because if you don't, this one could be quite confusing. I'll set the stage a little, but really, you should read Part One.
Adeen and Uno, the two ones from the ones place, have checked the tens place to try to borrow a ten, but no one was home, so they have gone to the hundreds place, where Adeen, the bolder of the two, has knocked on the door. As we resume our story, they are nervously waiting for one of the three resident hundreds to open the door.
And one of the hundreds, whose name was Centum, did open the door. Centum was huge. Huger than any number they'd ever seen. It looked around, but never having seen ones before, at first it didn't think to look down. When it finally did look down, it did a mild double-take, then asked, "Whaddya want?"
Uno hid behind Adeen while Adeen said, "We were wondering if we could borrow ten."
Centum smiled a little (the ones were cute), but the smile did not get the ones to relax at all. When something that big smiles, you're not sure why. "You want the tens place," said Centum. "That's next door." Centum expected the ones to scurry off immediately to the tens place. But they didn't.
"We tried the tens place," said Adeen. There's nobody there.
"They've probably gone fishing," suggested Centum.
"See? I TOLD you!" mumbled Uno into Adeen's ear, not loud enough for Centum to hear.
But Adeen was not shaken by the suggestion, nor by Uno's murmuring. "We need to do the subtraction now," explained Adeen. "Doesn't every hundred have ten tens?"
Centum scratched it's head. "Well, yeah. But you said you only needed one ten. What are you gonna do with the other nine?"
The average one might have been baffled by that question - might have given up, gone home, and maybe had some hot chocolate or something. But not Adeen. "We'll drop them off at the tens place," Adeen retorted, smartly.
Centum couldn't argue. I knew enough about math to know a good idea when it heard one. It didn't volunteer to go, though. Hecta, a hundred who was upstairs reading, ended up volunteering to be the one to go. And now, instead of containing three hundreds, the hundreds place only had two. That's all right, though, because there would be more math problems later.
Adeen and Uno dragged Hecta to the tens place, where they unloaded nine of Hecta's tens, and then returned to the ones place, where, with the one ten Hecta had left, they turned from two to twelve. As twelve, they had no trouble subtracting the eight ones who were in the basement. It was a piece of cake. As a matter of fact, when they were done, the four
remaining ones (after all, twelve minus eight IS four) each had a piece of cake. And then they finished the math problem and went on to the next one.
Children Teaching Children 410.
It will never cease to amaze me how well children can sometimes teach children things that we adults have to figure out how to teach. I'm pretty sure I understand why - it's easier to help someone follow a path if you've just followed it yourself. You know which shortcuts work and which ones lead you into trouble. Children can sometimes explain things in the language of someone who doesn't get it, because they only recently got it; they still remember what was so hard about it, and what made it easier.
But it doesn't work all the time. If it did, adults wouldn't be as important in children's education as they are. I've witnessed children attempting to teach, not noticing some misunderstandings, and getting quite frustrated with their pupils. Some obstacles to understanding are too formidable or subtle for children to consistently see. I've heard children answer "Why?" with "It just is!" Such an answer does not represent the best in pedagogy. Sometimes it takes a while to understand something well enough to teach it, and a child who has just learned it isn't always the best one to teach it.
Still, it's great when it does happen, and good teaching (by adults) sometimes involves knowing when to set up situations where it will happen. Ideally, a patient child who has recently figured something out helps a child who sincerely wants to figure it out. I've seen that happen many times, and when I've been able to see and hear that kind of teaching, I've been able to learn from it. Not that I return to childhood, but that I recapture some of the perspective I lost by growing up.
For example, I once heard a teacher explain that a solar eclipse occurs when earth's moon moves into a position wherein it prevents sunlight from reaching a certain part of earth. (Forgive me. Most teachers I know don't talk to children that way, but that example will help me make my point.) The teacher asked a child to repeat the explanation, and the child said, "We can't see sunlight because the moon gets in the way." Children may not have much experience wherein they can't see object A because object B moves into a position wherein it prevents light from object A from reaching them, but they know all about not being able to see something because something or someone is "in the way." The concept is the same, but the explanation makes more sense to children.
There's another good reason to let children teach children (besides the possibility that they may do it more effectively than we would). Sometimes a child just needs to know that a certain concept is possible to understand, and it's easier to believe that if a peer has recently figured it out. Preferably not a child who has a reputation for being the class "brain." Sometimes the "brain" is seen as an undercover adult, and it doesn't help at all to know that THAT child understands. Well of course SHE/HE understands!
But a well-chosen peer is sometimes the ideal teacher, and sometimes the best we adults can do is let/make that happen.
"Still a Kid at Heart" 411.
I've often heard adults say that they're still kids at heart. They say and do things to prove that they really haven't grown up. And there's an old song about the importance of being "young at heart." I, personally, do not like to think of myself as a "kid at heart," and don't think I'm "young at heart." I spent a lot of time and energy trying to grow, and I'm still trying. If, after all that work, I'm still a kid, it means the work was all in vain.
I'd prefer to think that I'm middle-aged at heart, and that in a few more decades, I'll begin to be old at heart. As much as I love spending time with children, and enjoy listening to them and hearing their thoughts, I don't think it "keeps me young." It keeps me optimistic and generally positive, but not young. Time keeps right on marching, and I'll get a year older each year. So will everyone else.
I think I understand why people who are not children work so hard to believe they are. Part of the reason is that we live in a culture that doesn't value age the way some cultures do. Too bad. Life teaches us a lot, and the older we are, the more chances life has had to do that teaching. And another part of the reason is that the last thing we do is die, and with each passing year, we're closer to that. People don't want to die, and they don't want their appearance and/or behavior to remind them and others of the inevitability of that event. And so people have face-lifts, wear make-up that covers wrinkles, lie about their age, color their hair, and so on. And they tell themselves, despite plenty of evidence to the contrary, that they're still children.
I'm going to die. If I'm lucky and skillful, that won't happen for a long time. I eat well, and try to get exercise. But I do it to stay healthy, not to stay young. I admit that I miss parts of my youth; I'm not above that. And I've even had moments when I've wanted to color my graying hair blond. But the impulse hasn't lasted long enough for me to actually do it. I have shaved off my beard a few times, and it has made me look younger, but as soon as I got tired of hearing that I looked younger (which didn't take long), I stopped shaving. So far, I've been fairly consistently able to remind myself of my conviction that aging is real and good.
I'm not saying all aspects of the aging process are positive. We lose some skills. We forget things. We're constantly reminded that we ain't what we used to be, and it depresses and scares many people. I've had my moments of being depressed and/or scared. Those moments tend not to occur when there are children around. And not just because children are so positive. Often, when children get annoyed by things, I'm reminded of a reason I'm glad I'm not a child. I'm free from a lot of the annoying stuff they have to deal with.
So let's grow old. Let's not try to believe that we're "kids at heart." Let's reintroduce the idea that wisdom comes with age. We "Aged of Aquarius" have plenty of time left; let's not waste it pretending we have even more than we do. Caring Parents and Defensive Teachers 412.
I recently had a talk with a mother who cares deeply about her daughter. She doesn't want her daughter to have to deal with some of what she used to have to deal with in school. This woman has bitter memories of teachers who worked to prevent her from being who she was, and she is not about to let that happen to her daughter. She also does have good memories of her childhood, and wants her daughter to grow up with good memories, too. That's pretty natural; it has to do with caring. The girl is lucky to have someone like that in her corner.
If a teacher is a source of trauma for a child, good communication can often help resolve the problem. Parents, who usually know their children much better than teachers do, can let teachers know how to deal with children in ways that don't create trauma. I've sometimes heard, from parents of children I've taught, that my way of doing things was making life difficult for their children. That's valuable feedback, and I've usually appreciated it. While some parents were annoyed that I was so ready to alter my approach (Doesn't this guy know what's RIGHT for children?), most of them appreciated my flexibility.
But sometimes there is a wall that separates a teacher from a concerned parent. Some teachers don't want to consider the possibility that they might not be doing what's best for a child. For some, that's a scary possibility; maybe it means the teacher has to grow. Maybe that involves thinking differently, and making adjustments. If a teacher had difficulty learning to teach and developing confidence in the first place, being thus challenged can bring back the feelings that went with those difficulties. The teacher gets defensive, and there isn't much effective communication. The problem is treated as only the child's problem. Or the parent is treated as a major source of the difficulty.
It's too bad about that wall. I understand it; I've faced parents who seemed to be suggesting that I was the reason things weren't going right for a child. And I got defensive. It didn't happen too often; usually, I was able to listen to concerns, and learn from them. So I didn't develop a large arsenal of defensive moves. But it happened enough for me to understand what's going on when a teacher feels attacked.
Teachers, I know it's hard to listen to parents who aren't happy with your teaching. I know it's tempting to dismiss complaints - to think that a parent's real problem is having too much spare time, and that she/he is complaining just to have something to do. But educating children really works best when the adults who have the most influence on children - parents and teachers - work together. And that means listening to each other. Even when it's difficult.



Success 413.
I like to think that my articles give people new perspectives. Whether or not every article I write really does that, it makes me feel good if I think I've written something original, perceptive, and/or inspirational. If I write something that doesn't seem to qualify, I delete it, or maybe file it, to be revised later. I want my articles to be good, and to get people to tell me how good they are, learn from what I write, and show the articles to other people.
With this in mind, I'm taking a risk when I write about the importance of success. Most people know all about the way success breeds success - about the way we tend to put extra effort into what we do, summon up extra skills, and generally care more about the outcome if we have smelled the sweet smell of success. So this article may not live up to my standards. I imagine my readers saying, "Duh!" or "Tell me something I don't know."
But we forget. When we teach, we can sometimes focus so hard on our standards of excellence that we forget to let our pupils succeed. It's a delicate balancing act. We don't want children to think there are no standards - that absolutely anything they do is perfect, and can't be improved. But we want them to feel good about what they do, even if we know they can do better.
A lesson that is planned perfectly allows each child to succeed while somehow maintaining appropriate standards. If there's a wide range of abilities in a class (and there usually is), one child's success may look very different from another's. But the discrepancy is not stressed - maybe not even noticed. Each child puts forth effort, and is rewarded by feeling successful.
Yesterday, I listened to a child who had just started learning to play the flute. She worked to produce the few notes she knew, and she produced them pretty clearly. I sat, looked, and listened. I was smiling. I wore an expression on my face that told her that I was impressed and pleased. I kept reminding myself to wear that expression. It wasn't fake; as I thought about the work required to make those sounds come out of the flute, I really was impressed that she could do it. And it sounded pretty good - no squeaks or sour notes.
This child told me, afterwards, that she really liked practicing flute for me. She said she liked to see me enjoying the sounds she made. She knew about standards, and had practiced in front of adults who stressed standards, but she preferred feeling as if her music was resulting in pleasure. The standards could come later.
Well, I've looked this article over a few times, and though it doesn't necessarily provide insight that will change the world, it does remind you to think about children's need to succeed. And maybe some of you sometimes forget that. So I guess I'll call this article a success, and I guess I'll write another one tomorrow.

The Regular Way 414.
People who feel secure often like to try new things. That's because even though security is great, it's not all there is, and people do get bored doing what they've always done in the way they've always done it. Even if they do it very well, and even if they get lots of appreciation. We like to feel that we're learning - growing - moving. So we explore new worlds, try things we've never tried. And we're often glad we did.
But that's only if we feel secure. If not, we like to rely on what we know. What we know may be mediocre, ineffective, or boring. It may not win us any prizes, or pave the way for great things. But at least we know it. And if we're not secure, we crave the familiar. Other people can explore new worlds if they want; we're happy that at least we have our old world to rely on.
Children have a reputation for being open to new things, and to a certain degree, it's a deserved reputation. They haven't had as many opportunities to try things as adults have, and they want such opportunities. Given chances to try things, they often seem bolder than adults - less worried about what could go wrong. They try, succeed or fail, and often try again, undaunted by failure, or not content with a little success. They revise their approaches based on their evaluations of their failures and successes. It can be inspiring.
But like us, children can also be very cautious and conservative. It depends partly on their nature and partly on how they've been nurtured. Once, working at a day care center, I helped supervise a field trip to a little swamp. We were supposed to be letting children experience the swamp as an exciting ecosystem. Some of the teachers had checked out the swamp in advance to make sure it was safe, and they assured the children (and me) that it was. No alligators, leaches, or anything else to worry about. Just friendly creatures who happened to prefer swamp life.
Three of the teachers took off their shoes and waded into the swamp. One didn't. Almost all of the children did, and they really looked as if they were having fun, partly getting to know the little creatures who inhabited the swamp, and partly just being creatures who temporarily inhabited it. Two children stayed on dry land with me. They did not want to go into the swamp. I knew that I wasn't setting a good example; I wasn't rising above my fear of swamps. But I was letting children know that being afraid did not make you a baby; I was obviously not a baby.
Caution can often be a good thing. There are things we're better off not trying because they are quite likely to end up resulting in negative experiences, and whatever possible positive experiences they might bring on aren't worth the risk. I know that varies from person to person. But having been and still being somewhat timid, I understand children and adults who would rather do things "the regular way," and it's all right with me.


Talking About Children 415.
Sometimes a child says something cute, profound, or otherwise noteworthy, and I really want to tell an adult about it. Recently, a child asked me for help with a math problem, and as I was helping her, I realized that she didn't need help at all. I said to her, "I get the feeling that you don't need help; you just want company."
She smiled, and said, "You discovered my secret." I was charmed by her self-awareness, her candor, and her sense of humor about herself. There were some students from a local college visiting the school, and almost right away, I got their attention and told them about the incident. They looked toward the child and smiled. I wanted to tell more people. In fact, I just told you, didn't I?
I didn't mean any harm when I told the college students about the incident. I assumed that the child would enjoy being a subject of conversation. Or I didn't think about it. But she didn't enjoy it at all. I looked at her face, and saw that she was annoyed. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me that she didn't like me telling strangers about her. I apologized, and explained that I hadn't meant any harm.
Many children don't like to be discussed that way. They want all discussions about them to include them. I had temporarily forgotten that. But I've known adults who make a habit of discussing children while the children are right there, and speaking as if the children were elsewhere. Such discussions can make children feel like objects. And they don't like that.
One possible improvement would be to time the discussions so that they happen when the children are not around. But that's still not ideal; it's still not respecting the child's privacy. I've told you about the incident, but I showed this article to the child before I showed it to you or anyone else. If she'd wanted me to, I would have fictionalized it a little out of respect for her privacy.
Maybe you think I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. Maybe you talk about children all the time, and it doesn't matter to you whether the children hear what you say. But it does matter to some children. Children are people, and want to be respected. Some don't mind if you tell other people about them. Some even like it when you do. But many don't.
I've learned from this episode. From now on, if I want to tell an adult about something a child has said or done, I'll ask the child first. Or at least I'll be more discreet about it. When I was an employed teacher, talking about children was part of my job. There were parent conferences, staff meetings, and other situations where children were topics of conversation. Now, as a volunteer, I focus more on being a friend to children. And I'm going to do my best to revise my policy about talking about children. I hope parents and teachers will, too.

Choosing a Strategy 416.
Teachers develop vast repertoires of strategies for helping children learn. They get those strategies from courses they've taken, books and articles they've read, teachers they've observed, their own thoughts, and countless other sources. Some of those strategies make their way into plan books, but you can't plan everything; sometimes you just have to teach by ear, and hope you're doing it well.
Yesterday, Jane Mellor, one of the teachers I work with, listened to a child who had a problem. The child was supposed to speculate about how the author of a historical novel they had read had gotten information to write the book. In a serious, concerned voice, this child said she honestly had no idea how the author could have found information. The main character in the book was not famous. No books had been written about this character. The poor child was at a loss.
My inclination would have been to help the child speculate - to ask leading questions and steer the child toward an approach that would work. Whether you're a parent, a teacher, or both, I'll bet many of you would have had similar inclinations. Here was a child who needed help, and was quite articulate in asking for it. It really looked as if the obvious thing to do would be to give her the help she was asking for.
But Jane used a different approach. She asked whether there was anyone else who could help figure out how the author had found information. Children raised their hands, and one at a time, started suggesting possibilities. The child who had the problem listened to her peers' suggestions, and seemed to feel better.
I don't mean to imply that Jane's approach was earth-shaking or ground-breaking. It's an approach I've seen often, and I've used it plenty of times myself. But seeing her use that approach at that moment, I was reminded of the degree of skill teachers have to have all the time. They have to carry around their repertoires of teaching strategies, and in each situation, they have to decide which strategy is most appropriate.
Perhaps in another situation, Jane would have asked a leading question. It was a judgment call, and from where I sat, it looked as if she'd made a good call. I'm a good teacher, but if I'd been in charge at that moment, I would have chosen a less effective strategy from my repertoire. I would have rushed to the rescue, and the good interaction between the peers would not have happened.
Like most interactions between people, teaching is complicated. Every moment of a teacher's school day is full of decisions to be made: Which child should get my attention now? Should I help this child or not? Should I let this child make a mistake? There's so much going on when twenty or so children, all of whom have different abilities and learning styles, are in one room, trying to learn together.
When I write about teaching, I usually focus on one aspect of it at a time. That's a luxury I have as a writer. But teachers don't have that luxury.
Children as Friends 417.
When I first started teaching and parenting, I kept hearing the message that teachers and parents should not try to be "pals" to children. I didn't like that message. I didn't like the way people said the word "pals," and I didn't understand why they didn't use the word "friend," nor what was wrong with being children's friend. "Friend" seemed, and still seems, like the most important thing a teacher or parent can be to a child, or to anyone else.
But I realize, now, that some people who delivered that message did not mean it the way I heard it. There is absolutely nothing wrong with friendship. It's one of my favorite things about life as a human being here on earth. I don't think most people were disagreeing with me about that, nor trying to totally exclude children. I think we agree that everybody needs friends.
There was something else being implied by substituting the word "pal" for "friend." When I was twenty-one and starting to work with children, I had not yet fully accepted the reality that I was not a child. So I was not ready to accept the degree to which the world of children is a separate world. I wanted to be part of that world in every way, and in some ways, I sort of made a fool of myself trying. Some children seemed to like it, but some seemed to feel as if I was a double agent.
But I believed then, and I believe now, that friendship, broadly conceived, belongs to both children and adults. And I think there can and should be plenty of cross-over. Adults often know more and think more skillfully, but not always. And superior knowledge or thought doesn't have to be a barrier to friendship. I have plenty of adult friends who know things I don't know and are able to think in ways I'm still learning to think. And vice versa. That phenomenon, properly recognized and used, enriches the friendships.
Maybe substituting the word "pal" for "friend" implies that the adult is trying to avoid adulthood - that the possible gains made by growing up don't really exist, or aren't factors in adult/child friendships. I've sometimes made the mistake of inappropriately treating a young friend as an authority figure, and I've seen other adults do that. I still do it once in a while, but I'm learning not to. It's dishonest; both the adult and the child need to be aware of who's who.
Knowing who's who helps to define friendships, but does not have to make them any less substantial. And children who are my friends are going to grow up. Some of them already have. I learn from them when they're children, and I hope to keep learning from them as they become adults. They're my friends. Maybe not my "pals;" I'm willing to let go of that word; I never liked it much anyway. But friends.

Having Bad Days 418.
Many of us adults allow ourselves to have days when we're not at our best. Some of us find people or circumstances to blame, and to varying degrees, and in various ways, sometimes those people and circumstances actually do deserve some of the blame. As hard as we try to be in control of what happens to us, we're not always completely in control. And it sometimes helps us cope if we can point a finger elsewhere, whether or not the reasons for bad days really are external and/or controllable. Whether or not there even are reasons.
Many (but not all) of us also allow children to have bad days. We relax our standards for behavior and productivity, knowing that children, like us, can have ups and downs, and often do better during the ups. So there are days when some children are allowed to hand in work that doesn't represent the best they can do. And there are days parents let children get away with what's usually forbidden.
If we adults were perfect, every time we allowed a bad day, it would be the result of careful thought. But sometimes our bad days and theirs coincide, and we don't feel up to holding up our standards anyway. In fact, sometimes our bad days create bad days for children who were otherwise going to do fine; either they quickly perceive the lowering of standards and immediately take advantage of it, or our bad moods trickle down in other ways that affect them.
I know that there are parents, teachers, and children who know when their bad days are happening. If that's not too often, and there's a back-up plan already in place, a bad day can be a little better. The parent, teacher, or child can take the day off. An adult can have a substitute teacher, parenting partner, or babysitter take over while the storm is being weathered. A child may also be allowed to take a day off without being officially "sick."
It's healthy for us to know when it's happening, and to forgive ourselves and others. On our own good days, it's easier to forgive people whose days aren't turning out to be so good. And it's easier to forgive people whose bad days aren't too frequent. It's also nice to know what works. Some of my bad days are days when I should stay away from children, for their sake and mine. And some of them are days when I should make sure children are around.
If you haven't already, I recommend that you read Judith Viorst's book, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. Alexander is a child who is having one of those days, and keeps talking about running away to Australia. The last sentence in the book is one I've often quoted - sometimes for children, and sometimes for adults: "Some days are like that - even in Australia." The News 419.
I remember that as a child, I hated it when my parents or older brothers turned on the news, or any other program that featured adults talking to adults. I couldn't imagine how anyone could like it, or why. if people didn't like it, they paid attention to it anyway. I often noticed that the news did not tend to make viewers feel good; they got angry, depressed, or otherwise negative.
And unlike other things that bothered them, there didn't seem to be anything they could do about the news. It was on television, on radio, or in newspapers - none of which responded in any way to the ranting and raving I heard. I knew that voting was one thing they could do about it, but the people in the news who upset my parents were often the ones my parents had voted for, and would vote for again next time. I wished those nasty politicians would be nicer to my family.
Later, I was taught that paying attention to the news would somehow make me a better person; we lived in a democracy, and according to my social studies teacher, Mr. Layton, "Democracy depends on a well-informed electorate." Mr. Layton spoke these words with conviction in his voice, and being impressed with that tone, I decided that I was going to pay attention to the news. I liked Mr. Layton. Much more than I liked paying attention to the news
There was a war going on at the time. All I knew about war was that I had relatives who'd fought in one, and that I'd seen movies that made war seem glorious, exciting, and noble. As far as I knew, each war was supposed to have "good guys" and "bad guys." And the "good guys" always won. The first book I read about politics was Why Not Victory?, by Barry Goldwater, and it fit my understanding of what war was about.
But the war I saw on news programs didn't look glorious, exciting, or noble. It just seemed to be ending a lot of people's lives before they'd really gotten started. And there were demonstrations against war and injustice which also occasionally ended some lives. I gradually began to think that the more I understood what was happening, the less I would like it. I was going to have to either stop becoming aware of the news or become an activist. I did a little of each.
Children still have a tendency not to like news programs. They don't understand why adults seem to get so obsessed with the news. Now, I listen to NPR news every day. I do it because I want to. But as a parent and teacher, I rarely tried to get children to pay attention to current events. Part of the reason was the ephemeral nature of the news; any lesson plan I wrote about current events would become somewhat obsolete before or shortly after I used it. And another part of the reason was my own early childhood memories of watching news programs. I didn't like them. I'm not sure what my point is, or why I wrote this article. But children's perception of the news is worth thinking about.
Challenging Classes 420.
Some years, I had classes that were quite difficult for me to teach. I remember one year that was particularly difficult. There were children with all kinds of learning and behavior problems. There wasn't even a honeymoon period - those days, weeks, or months in the fall when children put their best feet forward; the first day of school wiped me out.
The teacher next door to me was doing fine. We were both teaching second grade, and for the first time, I thought that if my own child were in second grade, I would not want my child to have Mr. Blue. The guy had no idea how to manage a class. One minute in his classroom made that clear. And night after sleepless night, I tried to figure out new ways to make the class manageable.
Other teachers were very supportive. They told me I had an impossible class, and I was doing the best I could. While I appreciated their support, I did not want to believe either point. I kept trying to plan lessons, devise strategies, and invent policies that would work. Of course, consistency is important, but what sense would it make to consistently do something that didn't work?
Plenty of well-meaning people gave me advice about how to cope with this class. But as you may know, it's easier to accept help if you don't need it as much. When people suggested approaches that might help, I nodded my head and tried to look appreciative. Sometimes I tried their ideas. But I was also developing a conviction that nothing was going to work. In that frame of mind, no good idea stood much of a chance.
Some parents seemed to appreciate what I was doing, and know what a difficult group I had. Others didn't. But a teacher has a responsibility to make the best of whatever situation is handed her/him. And I'll never know whether I did make the best of that situation.
There was other difficult stuff going on in my life the year I had that class - a divorce, the challenge of living alone for the first time in my life, having to leave a school where I'd come to feel at home (a school my younger daughter attended). I have no doubt that some portion of the difficulty I was having had nothing to do with the combination of children in my class.
The following year, I had one of the best classes I'd ever had. I'd developed a reputation for having a chaotic style, so the parents of children who "needed structure" made sure their children were not in my class. All I had were children who didn't "need structure," and so anyone who looked at my class got the impression that I was a teacher who provided structure. And that year, the teacher next door had a difficult class, and got the reputation for having a chaotic style.
When teachers and administrators set up classes, they try to do so fairly. Usually, it works. But sometimes, when it doesn't work, what results is a class that can be quite challenging.
Changing Children 421.
When we decide to parent or teach children, we decide to get involved in their lives and have some impact. That means we hope that the children will somehow be different because of what we do. So one way to look at parenting and teaching is as an attempt to change children.
I don't know about you, but I have quite a few unpleasant memories of people's attempts to change me, and I don't want children to have memories like that. I like to be accepted, appreciated, and even celebrated for who I already am, and I'm quite sure children like that kind of treatment, too.
But I've been changed by people. I know that ultimately, I've been in charge of the changes in me, but plenty of people have had major effects on me. My parents and teachers knew what they wanted from me, and when they did their work effectively, they often got what they wanted. I changed from someone who didn't know how to read to someone who did. Part of my reason was that I wanted to know what those strange marks on paper were all about, but another part had to do with the people who wanted me to know how to read.
There's a delicate balancing act we have to play. As a parent and teacher, I always tried (and try) to communicate my acceptance of who children already were (and are). My most notable successes as a parent and teacher happened when I was able to effectively communicate that acceptance. And my most dismal failures happened when I either couldn't communicate it, or worse, didn't feel it. When children think they're not good enough for someone, they usually resist being affected by that someone.
On the other hand, if we're really totally happy with the way someone already is, why teach? Complicated, isn't it? I've known people who were not at all good at communicating their acceptance of me. Those people may have had important things to teach me, but there was no way I was going to let them. And I know people who really seem to think I'm pretty good. I like them, and they change me, often without even seeming to try. Some of my best friendships have a lot to do with my friends and me changing each other. I get changed by friendly suggestions, well-timed humor, and serious discussions.
Many of us children-changers don't like to think of ourselves as that. But in a way, that's what we are. We plan lessons to help children grow, and growth is change. Even when we work on children's self-esteem, we're trying to change children into people who like and respect themselves more. We're trying to deliver an important and potentially confusing message: "I thoroughly appreciate the person you are, and I have some ideas about ways you could become even better."

Seeing Our Children Grow 422.
You'd think after all the effort we'd put into helping our children grow, and after all the work we'd seen them put into that upward struggle,
that we'd be thoroughly happy when they'd finally made it through all that. We ought to be sitting back proudly and rejoicing in having done good work. And there can indeed be a lot of that sitting back and rejoicing.
There's also a feeling of relief; some of what we and they had to do was difficult when we were younger, and would be much more difficult now. I speak from my own point of view as a fairly recently disabled person, but I think I also speak for many other members of my generation, many of whom are relatively able-bodied. Most of us would not quite say we're glad to have it all "over with," but we're enjoying our new freedom in a way that's reminiscent of the enjoyment we got out of moving away from our parents; we're free again to concentrate more on our own priorities. We don't have to think about babysitters.
But there's also sadness, and when I first started adjusting to having my children grow up, there was anger. I'll tell you about the anger first; you're probably already somewhat familiar with the sadness. As I began to realize that my children were turning into adults, there were times when I was angry with them. It was an anger I didn't understand. It wasn't that there was anything wrong with the adults they were turning into, although some of my baffled utterances may have made it seem as if I disapproved of them.
I grew to realize, after much struggling with that anger, that I had been angry with them for destroying the wonderful children I'd loved through those years. They had destroyed the children by growing up. The little children who used to call me "Daddy" were now grown women. They still called me "Daddy," but where were those children? Hidden somewhere inside these women who called me "Daddy?" I didn't like that. Ally-ally-in-free!
As soon as I realized what was going on, my anger started subsiding, gradually giving way to occasional sadness. My daughters were not going to come to me crying when they fell down; they knew where the band-aids were. If I played my cards right, maybe they'd still come to me in times of trouble. Maybe they'd even manufacture some problems, just to indulge me. But they wouldn't need me the way they used to need me.
If you have children who haven't already grown up, they're probably going to. Maybe - probably - there are times when you wish they would hurry up and do it. And there are plenty of times I'm glad my daughters have done it. But I hope you're ready for the sadness, and maybe even the anger.

Vacations 423.
"Vacation" comes from a Latin word that means "empty." As a child, as an employed teacher, and as a parent of young children, I usually looked forward to vacations. That's pretty common. The kind of emptying that goes on during vacations is often quite pleasant, and the parts of people's lives that are temporarily emptied often get temporarily filled up with great stuff - trips to fun places, chances to pay more attention to items that are usually neglected, or sometimes, for some people, even time to exult in having nothing to do.
Now, as a volunteer who lives alone, vacations don't mean what they used to mean. It does mean that I get to spend time with my friends; they can visit me, because they don't have to go to work. But I'm also occasionally reminded of another aspect of vacations - one that used to bother me sometimes when I was a child. School and work are things to do. They provide reliable structure in the day and week. Even if the time we spend at work and in school isn't reliably pleasant, at least we know where we'll spend it, what kinds of things we'll do there, and who else will be there.
As parents and former children, many of you probably know how eagerly children look forward to vacations. They don't necessarily focus on what they'll do during vacations; some focus on what they won't do - go to school. They assume that fun will fill in the void created by lack of school, as people look forward to retirement as a time when they won't have to go to work. I used to fantasize about retirement, and yet now, retired, it's ironic how much my activities resemble what I was doing when I was employed. The work I do now for enjoyment is quite similar to the work I used to do to make ends meet.
I enjoy the actual work, but I also need the structure the school day and week provide. Like many of you, I have to carefully plan my vacation time so that I don't end up doing too much or too little. And also like many of you, I look forward to the end of vacation time; it may be liberating in some ways to empty out our usual schedules, but it can also be a relief to go back to the schedules.
So I guess it's appropriate that "vacation" comes from a word that means "empty." There are times when life gets too full - too full for parents, teachers, and/or children. Or full of the wrong things. So it makes some sense to look forward to emptying times. But it can also be useful to remember that we do rely on having something to do; adults and children can be surprised by some of the feelings of emptiness that accompany vacations.

Work 424.
Everyone has different ideas about what qualifies as work, play, or rest. If some people are involved in a basketball game, and they seem to be having fun, their activity could be called "play." If it doesn't seem as difficult as other things they do, it could be called "rest." And if they get paid, some people think of that as "work." The boundaries between work, play, and rest aren't as well-defined as some people think.
With that ambiguity in mind, let's take a look at "laziness." I think most people do what they think they need to do to get their lives going. Some think they need lots of money, and they often do work they'd really rather not do so that they'll get money. To some of them, people who enjoy their work but don't earn as much can seem lazy. Some people earn a lot by sitting at desks and talking to people, while others earn very little by lifting heavy things all day, or doing other work many of them would rather not do. Some people want to find jobs, and can't. Some are accused of not even wanting to find jobs - just living off the work of others. I don't buy that point of view, but I know people who swear by it.
To me, there's no point or truth in calling any of these people "lazy." I think they're all doing what they think they need to do. Human beings have a long history of trying to avoid hard work. They've invented all kinds of gadgets that make work easier, or unnecessary. We haven't called people "lazy" because they've moved to California using covered wagons or trucks, rather than carrying their belongings on their backs. But really, the horses and trucks did a lot of their work. And over the years, I've heard many people who've said and believed that they've built their own homes. Most of them relied heavily on many other workers.
Now, let's look at the child who is not doing the work the teacher has assigned. Maybe the child is not interested in the work - does not think the work has anything to do with him/her. Maybe it's lack of confidence - why struggle to do what's impossible? Perhaps he/she does not like being told what to do, and is rebelling. It could be that the child is not even aware that there's work to do; not everything a teacher says or writes is necessarily heard or read. Calling a child or adult "lazy" may help whoever is using that label; we all need to make sense of our experiences. But I don't think it's accurate or useful.
I've spent much of my life thinking I've been lazy. After all, there's been plenty of work I haven't done, even though I could have. I could have exercised more. I could have taken more courses. I could have chosen a career that made me richer. And now, I could do things to earn more money. I consciously think I lack energy, and the medical world backs me up on that. But there are still unconscious murmurings inside me telling me I'm lazy.
I'm not lazy. Neither are you. Neither is the adult who hasn't found a job or the child who isn't doing the worksheet.


Old-fashioned Teachers 425.
In some circles, it's really hip to say you're old-fashioned. You talk about the way things used to be, and tell people that you're immune or at least resistant to the changes that invade life as time marches on. And you can be seen as a quixotic hero. Behind that view of you is a belief that many of the changes time brings make things worse.
Of course, some changes do make things worse. Change for change's sake isn't necessarily good, although if the status quo is bad enough, just about any change starts to look good. But talking about the need for change can be pretty empty talk. When I think about any issue, I'd much rather talk about the substance of the issue than discuss the need for change. If change is a good idea, substantial discussion will make that clear.
I'm old-fashioned in some ways, as are most people I know. We're also pioneers and rebels in other ways. I think it's far more useful to think about what works and what feels right than about what's old-fashioned and what's new-fangled.
I've worked with a teacher who is of "the old school" on several issues. She holds up high standards, and does not believe that any child should get good grades unless that child has earned them. She gives children lots of work to do, and expects them to do it. If they don't, they've got to pay the price, which can mean bad grades, missed recesses, and/or scowls from the teacher.
Some parents like this teacher's style. It reminds them of what school was like for them, and after all, they turned out all right, didn't they? They didn't have cooperative education, humanistic education, or any of those other new things that teachers use nowadays.
As a volunteer, I try to approach each classroom with an open mind. Partly, that's because I consider it a privilege to be allowed to work with children, and I don't want to risk losing that privilege. But partly, I want to learn about different approaches. I want to see what works. Even if what works isn't what I was doing during the twenty-five years I was employed as a teacher. I've already learned that some of my approaches and techniques could have been better. I was learning that during those twenty-five years, I'm learning it now, and I expect to continue learning it.
There are some approaches and techniques that are time-honored, and are used by many teachers. Holding up high standards and assigning lots of work is a time-honored approach. But I've seen it done in a way that just doesn't work. I know the children in the class of this "old-fashioned" teacher, and they are not learning as much as children who have less "old-fashioned" teachers. And call me "old-fashioned," but I think teachers are responsible for causing children to learn. Even if it means trying out new ways. The New Kid 426.
Life can be fun and exciting for a child who is entering a new classroom and/or school mid-year. The chances are that no one knows who this stranger is, and that gives the newcomer a chance to redefine herself/himself, highlighting aspects of his/her personality that weren't highlighted in the old place, and maybe concealing some aspects that were. Old problems can even go away in the new place, and new strengths can emerge. To a lesser degree, this can also be true for a child who has been elsewhere for a significant amount of time, due to illness or family business.
But usually, there's more trauma than fun involved in such transitions. Everyone else seems to know each other, and to know the routines in the classroom and school. The teacher has had plenty of time to do things to make each child feel special. There can be name tags, photographs, and charts that include every child, and throughout the classroom, there are drawings and other evidence that each child is an important member of the class.
The teacher is already involved in planning the rest of the year, and has already developed strategies for coping with various ideosyncracies; all attempts to include the new child have to be quite deliberate. And children, who have spent the beginning of the school year establishing their places in the complicated social and academic world of the classroom and school, also have to figure out how to relate with this new person.
Occasionally, a newcomer who really has her/his act together can improve the class by his/her added presence. This new kid on the block can be the friend Child A has really needed. Child B, who had a strength or weakness that set her/him apart, may now be able to feel a little less strange, because the new child also has that strength or weakness. I usually enjoyed adding a child to my class; it was exciting to witness the different ways children responded, and to help guide them towards positive responses. I remember being a seven year old new kid, and I remember the myriad of feelings that came with that role. It was exciting and scary; I saw potential for both connection and alienation. Now, when I help a child adjust, I partly feel as if I am helping that little boy I used to be.
It doesn't have to take long. Children are often great at including newcomers, and teachers usually have strategies for making new children feel at home. They use records sent by previous teachers, insights offered by parents, input from other adults, and their own experience and skill. And soon, the new kid can become a full-fledged member of the class, ready to help the next new kid adjust.

Children Who Avoid Attention 427.
Most children usually want to be noticed. Ideally, they want positive attention from adults and from other children who also want positive attention, and they quickly learn how to get it. The resulting behavior can be positively positive. And as most of you know, some children, for a variety of reasons, get attention in less ideal ways, often causing trouble and getting more than their fair ration of attention.
But there are also children who don't want to be noticed. Being the seasoned, veteran attention-getter I am, I don't understand these children as well as I understand the ones who are more like me. But I've taught enough of them, racked my brain enough, read enough, and consulted enough relative experts to have collected a few pointers.
Some children don't want attention because when they have gotten attention, it's been the wrong kind. They've been abused, and they've learned that the way to avoid or decrease that abuse is to make sure they're not noticed. That's the first thing I try to check out when I meet a child who doesn't seem to want attention. Abuse is a complicated issue, and it is the responsibility of every adult who has contact with children to find ways to stop it from happening.
Another possibility is that the child has experienced difficulty doing the things that are expected of him/her. If a child has trouble learning to do what other children do, that child may try to hide the difficulty. If the rest of the class is challenging enough for a teacher, that teacher may even welcome inconspicuous behavior - may wish it were contagious. But sooner or later - preferably sooner - inconspicuous problems still have to be recognized as problems. Ignored, they can grow.
I still have to leave room for the possibility that some healthy, happy, competent children don't want a lot of attention. Not being shy myself, I don't fully understand that phenomenon, but I know and respect adults who used to wish teachers would leave them alone. They didn't like the kind of publicity they often got in school.
I recently invented an expedient technique to help one child who doesn't like attention. Like everyone else in the class, there are times when he's supposed to write. He doesn't like that. When I'm there for writing time, I sit with him for a minute. I tell him that after he's written a sentence, I'll go away if he wants me to. So far, he wants me to, so he gets right to work and writes a sentence. I tell him I'll come back in a few minutes, and if he's written another sentence, I'll go away again if he wants me to.
That technique works for now; he does the writing he's supposed to do. Maybe getting the work done will get him to feel more competent, and to feel more like fitting in with the rest of the class. But maybe not. It could well be that this game is only a game, and that his resistance to attention is a symptom of problems that require more than my little game. We'll see.

Buttons Children Push 428.
There are things we adults know we shouldn't say or do, because saying or doing them won't do any good, and will probably do some harm. If we were saints, or even consistently reasonable but unsaintly people, we wouldn't ever do those things. But every adult I know well sometimes does some of them, and I strongly suspect that the rest of the adults - the ones I don't know so well - do, too. Of course, some do so more than others, but we all do it. We try not to, but we can't help it.
Same with children. Even usually well-intentioned children occasionally forget their good intentions and say or do things that they know are bound to make things worse. And some children make a habit of it. If something can be said to spoil a good time or aggravate a bad one, you can rely on some children to do so.
We often don't know why this happens - what forces come together to make some children and adults say or do just the wrong things at just the wrong times. There's a strong tendency to think they do so because they're evil, or because they're at least temporarily possessed by the forces of evil. I strongly believe that all people are basically well-intentioned, but I've often seen children and adults say things I'm sure they know will only hurt. I've done so myself, too. And I'm a nice guy. Really, I am. Ask any of my friends.
Sometimes, we can remove ourselves a little and clearly see what's going on. Some children need to know that their words and actions can affect people, and they haven't figured out how to have good effects. They find it easier to upset people. As adults, sometimes we can see what's going on, and skillfully redirect a child's shenanigans. We can teach some children to be more aware of how they affect other people, and how they consequently end up affecting the way they're seen by other people. And some children are open to thinking about their behavior, and changing it.
But not all the time. If we've seen the needs of the children being tormented more clearly than we've seen the needs of the tormentors, we react instead of responding. If the tormentors remind us too strongly of other tormentors we've known, we can quickly make connections in our minds, and react inappropriately. Sometimes children can push our buttons; we may be adults who should know better, but we've been known to occasionally fall prey to children's words and deeds.
The most common reaction we adults give is to rely on our superior power. We sometimes tend to make children stay in from recess or something for reminding us too strongly of nemeses we've known. But if we can rise above that tendency, we can see that children who push people's buttons have needs, too. And we can work on helping to meet those needs.

Tempus Fugit? 429.
One of the ideas adults like to think of as wisdom is the idea of the brevity of life, together with the importance of taking things slowly: "Time flies." "This, too, shall pass." "Look before you leap." "All good things take time." That's easy for us to say. But I'm not sure it counts as wisdom. It's just our perspective, and maybe it can't be translated into the language of those who are much younger than we are. For some of them, it seems as if hardly any good things take time; taking time, in and of itself, isn't good.
I remember how long a minute used to be. It had sixty long seconds. Sixty of them! A lot of childhood is spent rushing around, but a lot of it is also spent waiting, wishing things would hurry up and happen. That can be true of adulthood, too, but for me, at least, it feels very different. A decade no longer seems like a very long time. I've already had about five of them, and I hope to have about five more, but the only ones that seemed long were the first two. They took forever. And I don't think there was much wisdom in the advice I got about being patient and slowing down. I wasn't patient at all, and slowing down? That would have prolonged my agony!
Now I've slowed down, and I'm more patient, but I still remember. I did some things that I now think were foolish, but I didn't think so when I did them, and though some people were telling me I was being foolish, and would live to regret my decisions and actions, I couldn't really hear them. And the children and young adults I know who are now making important decisions about their lives may or may not be able to hear the advice of their elders. And even if they do hear, that advice may or may not sound relevant to them. There are plenty of adults around, and they often contradict each other as they give advice.
I now enjoy my patience. It's nice, when what I want doesn't happen right away, to feel okay about waiting. I know time will pass, and I can do other stuff while I'm waiting. But I don't think that that patience can be handed over to younger people as wisdom. I may write or say words about what's going on for me now, but I try not to tell other people that what's going on for me ought to be going on for them. That approach didn't work on me, and I don't think it'll work on many young people.
So here's my advice for adults who want children, teenagers, and young adults to hurry up and become more patient: be patient. They may not be very good at waiting now. They may be leaping now, perhaps planning to look when they get around to it. But they'll come around. All good things take time.

Learning from a Child's History 430.
I'm in a fairly unique position in a school system, and I'm developing a conviction that it's too bad it's so unique. I stay with the children as they move from grade to grade, and so I really get to know them. If a child has a noteworthy experience or does something significant in first grade, I remember it. I know what has worked for individual children, and what hasn't worked. If I think a teacher ought to know about something from a child's history, I bring it up.
Don't get me wrong; teachers do talk to each other about children. But teachers are busy people, so Bartholomew's sixth grade teacher may catch the boy's fifth grade teacher in the hall and ask whether Bartholomew had certain difficulties in fifth grade. Many teachers want to benefit from each other's experiences. But there's rarely a long talk, and Bartholomew's first grade teacher is rarely consulted. There just isn't time.
My idea is not a panacea, and does present problems. There can be advantages to moving a child from a second grade teacher who knows the child's problems to a third grade teacher who doesn't. It gives the child a better chance to turn over a new leaf. That can be harder to do when the teacher knows the child's history. I'm selective about the bits of children's history I offer teachers; I want to give new leaves a chance to grow. And teachers are free to use or not use my input.
Maybe some day I'll regret having told a teacher something about a child. I may make a mistake in judgment, and tell a teacher something that is better left unsaid. I don't want everybody to know about every mistake I've made in my life, every negative pattern I've had; it could give people what I consider the wrong idea about me. And children deserve the chance to close chapters of their lives, too, and be free from the ghosts of their mistakes. But sometimes teachers ought to know things about children, and shouldn't have to spend half the year learning them.
Like so many good ideas in education, the idea of cross-grade consultations is usually pre-empted by "practical" considerations. Teachers don't get much preparation time, and much of the time they get is spent dealing with curriculum. There are conferences with parents, who know their children well, and parents often do shed light that is quite helpful. But imagine a meeting some time in October or November when Bartholomew's first, second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth grade teachers (if all those teachers are still around) get together to discuss the boy's history.
I'll close with one of my poems:
If I had the talent to paint,
I'd paint things that should be, but ain't.
A lot of what I've seen so far
Are things that shouldn't be, but are.

Isabel 431.
I recently had lunch at a restaurant with my friend Russell and his daughter Isabel, who is two and a half years old. Isabel had a lot to say, and said it. Yet she allowed us to have our conversations, too. I found that surprising, but maybe that's because it's been so long since I've spent much time with toddlers. Nowadays, I tend to think of toddlers as people who have very short attention spans, and get bored very quickly when adults have adult conversations. And I think of bored toddlers as forces to be reckoned with.
But Isabel made our time together enjoyable. I don't know how much of our adult conversation she understood, but she seemed to be either listening to us or thinking about her own things. She smiled a lot, and spoke both when we spoke to her and when she had her own things to say. And she did have a lot to say.
I was charmed by her way of speaking. Toddlers struggle to form words and phrases, and their difficulties and mistakes can charm and amuse adults. At first, I allowed myself to be simply charmed and amused, but after a while, I reminded myself to listen to what this person was saying. There was a reason for her earnest efforts to speak the language we spoke; she wanted to communicate. Maybe she wanted to charm and amuse, too, or at least didn't mind doing that, but communication was her main goal.
What she had to say may not have seemed as important to me as what Russell had to say; after all, Russell has been my friend for about fifteen years, and our conversations get personal, philosophical, political, and all. Isabel is not at a point in her life where she thinks about whether to vote her conscience or opt for the lesser of two evils. She thinks about the fact that a man she sees is wearing a hat. But the fact that a man is wearing a hat is as important to her as our thoughts are to us. We all try to make sense out of the world we live in.
When people learn new languages, sometimes people who already know the languages find mispronunciations and inappropriate phrases charming. My friend Olga had a Byelorussian accent, and really wanted to get rid of it; she wanted to learn to communicate more effectively, not charm. I think that's also true, to some degree, of people who are learning their first language.
When I think about Isabel, I'm going to think about who she is. And when I talk with her (which I hope I'll do from time to time), I'm going to make sure she knows I respect the thinking she's doing. What goes on in children's minds is important. Together, we human beings can get a lot done. And we'd do better to listen well to each other; Isabel's charm, Olga's charm, and the charms of many other people are appealing, but we've got to make sure we don't let the charms cover up the content.
Artists and Teachers 432.
When I was in seventh grade, Mr. Wetlauffer, my art teacher, once looked at a drawing I'd done and recommended that I stick to music. I think he was commenting on my art more than on my music. I'm pretty sure he meant it as a little joke. But I was devastated by his comment, and by other negative comments he made after looking at my art. I didn't take long to decide that there were people who were good at art, and there were other people like me, who weren't.
Just as the gym teacher had a habit of drawing our attention to a handful of strong and fit kids to use as examples, Mr. Wetlauffer kept showing us how talented some members of the class were. He also lost no opportunity to show us how talented HE was. I, for one, did not get inspired by that talent; I sometimes got awed by it, but mostly, it discouraged me. Probably, there were kids who felt that way about my musical talent; I think I was used as an example in music class. That did wonders for my self-esteem, but I wonder how many people it discouraged.
Since I started working with children, children have been impressed with my artistic talent. I've enjoyed the kudos I've gotten from children, but I've taken a long time to internalize them. I've thought children would stop being impressed by my art as soon as they reached an age at which they could easily outshine me - perhaps age ten. And besides, one of my roles as teacher is to get children to realize how talented THEY are, not gather kudos for myself.
Adults are former children, and there are often conflicts going on inside adults; they've worked to develop their own talents and skills, and having done so, they don't always feel like working on children's self-esteem; they've got self-esteem issues of their own. In fact, there are people who teach instead of what they really want to do; they've been unable to find work as artists, musicians, athletes, or whatever else they have striven for, so they've taken jobs as teachers. Some have risen to the challenge and become great teachers, but some have remained bitter and, to some degree, have taken it out on children.
The appreciation I've gotten from children and good art teachers with whom I've worked has gradually won me over; I've begun to think of myself as a pretty good artist. But that was after years of believing Mr. Wetlauffer. And I know people who've taken years to discover that they could sing; they've had to overcome reactions they've gotten from music teachers.
It's too bad. I wish people could do the work that is most important to them. There shouldn't be so many frustrated artists, musicians, athletes, scientists, etc. teaching children. They should be following their blisses, and letting children be taught by people who want to be teachers.

Taking Notes 433.
A few teachers tried to teach us how to take notes. And some of us learned how to do it. Gloriana, who later became our valedictorian, was great at it. Her notes were always arranged in outline form, and written in what looked to me like calligraphy. Sometimes, I'd watch her take notes, hoping to learn how she did it.
But most of the time, I paid more attention to the teacher. After all, wasn't the teacher saying things I was supposed to be hearing and learning? I wasn't very good at doing two things at once; if I was going to pay attention to the teacher, I was going to have to look at and listen to him/her. If I kept looking down at my notebook and writing, I would miss some of what the teacher was saying. I kept hoping taking notes wasn't as important as teachers were saying it was.
When I was about to go to college, I panicked. Somehow, I'd made it through high school without knowing how to take notes, but now teachers were going to find out what I was really made of. In elementary school, we'd been told how much harder junior high would be, and in junior high, we were warned about the rigors of high school. I'd taken those warnings seriously, and there had been some truth to them, but somehow, I'd managed to make it through, and even get grades that were sometimes pretty good.
But now I was going to go to COLLEGE, where I'd be found out. Teachers (instructors? professors?) would assume that I'd had a good preparation for college, and they'd expect, among other things, that I'd be writing as they were talking. By then, I was sure I wouldn't be able to do that. I convinced my parents to buy me a portable tape recorder, and I used it for the first week of classes.
But when I got to my dorm and listened to my taped lectures, they sounded just like the lectures I'd attended. I could have transcribed the lectures, but I had the feeling that there were better ways to study, and besides, there were people ordering out for pizza, or folk dancing on the lawn. Those seemed like much better ways to spend time than trying to fill up a notebook.
I made it through college. I passed some courses that required me to take notes, and failed two. But mostly, I took courses that didn't require notes. And I did pretty well in those courses. I was great at class participation. And I wrote pretty well. Graduate school was even better for me, because by then, I had figured out how to read course offerings, and I only took courses that were right for me.
But I never got good at taking notes. If a teacher was saying something I considered noteworthy, I wanted to listen, not write in a notebook. Afterwards, I remembered what was memorable, and forgot the rest. I've done all right anyway, but I sometimes wonder whether taking good notes would have made a significant difference in my life. Skipping Childhood 434.
Over the years, I've known several people who have said that they or their children skipped childhood. Their feelings about that perceived phenomenon range from pride to bitterness. Sometimes people have told me that their children are reincarnated adults, but I think very few (if any) of those people really believe in reincarnation; they don't mean it literally. I, personally, believe that everyone has a childhood. That doesn't mean there are no precocious children, or that traumatic events and/or negative patterns can't rob children of some of the blessings other children have.
But I've known many children, and they've all fit my definition of "children;" they've been young, and have had to learn some things about life that adults tended to already know. And they all started out quite a bit shorter than the average adult. I don't think anyone skips childhood, and I think we can do harm by treating children as if they aren't children. And this isn't just a matter of semantics; I'm not playing a word game with you.
Piaget, Vygotsky, Gagne, and many other people who have studied children have written about stages of development children go through. The writing of these psychologists, though, is usually descriptive, not prescriptive; they've written about what they've observed, and they haven't said or implied that all children go through the stages they've described on any precise schedule. People are complicated right from the start, but I believe that they're all children before they're adults.
We owe it to children to recognize that they're children. Children deserve to be accepted for who they are, and to grow at rates that are right for them. That may mean that a child who squares two-digit numbers in his/her head or reads Shakespeare may still sleep with a security blanket or teddy bear. Any of the above can be done by people who qualify as children.
And we also owe it to children to make sure their childhoods contain some security, some joy, some love - all those gifts that make life something to be glad about. When children have to do or experience things that ought to be done or experienced by adults, or things that shouldn't have to be done or experienced by anyone, those children are not being robbed of childhood; they're being robbed of their rights as humans. Children, adults, and everyone in between deserve to get some of the best things life has to offer, and to be protected from the worst.
Whether it's meant positively or negatively, I don't think it's accurate or useful to say that someone has skipped childhood.

Separate Identities 435.
A friend recently asked me what to do about or how to think about her son, who is beginning to define himself. The definitions children come up with are often very different from what we had in mind when we started parenting, and very different from what we saw during the first few years. And they're often very different from anything we hoped our children would grow to be.
I find it useful, when a child is going through something I don't understand, to think about my own childhood. When I started defining myself, what was I thinking and feeling?
First of all, I had to establish myself as a separate person, with an identity of my own. This meant a lot to me. I felt as if my parents' identities were strong, and establishing my own self was going to be a big job. During what I consider the beginning of my separation, I got involved in politics. I joined Young Americans for Freedom, and at our high school, the Young Conservative Club. At the local shopping mall, I handed out leaflets in support of Barry Goldwater's presidential campaign. And I had lots of political debates with my parents.
I didn't think I was rebelling. I thought I'd discovered a point of view that my parents would soon discover if I did my job right. I knew my parents were liberals, but I thought that was only because they hadn't thought much about politics. Now that I was thinking about it, they'd come around. Then we'd all rally behind the Arizona senator, and maybe attend his inauguration. My parents and their friends said I was just rebelling, and that bothered me; I wanted them to think about the substance of what I was saying, not write it off as rebellion. And it really bothered me when Goldwater himself said young people were rebelling against their liberal parents.
I didn't stay conservative for long. The more I learned about myself, the less conservative politics fit me. But I went to college far away from my parents, and went on to live a life that didn't include them very much. It took me a long time to establish my identity, and it hurt my parents that they weren't allowed to be part of that. (Actually, in a way, they were a big part of it, but I stayed away during most of my search.)
Now, my parents are my friends. As I make decisions about my life, I sometimes ask for their opinions, and sometimes use their input. They value my thinking, too.
Now to apply all this to my friend, whose son is much younger than I was during my Goldwater days, but is already beginning to define himself in a way that separates him from his parents. I know that children today rebel earlier than they used to. I know that it's something that happens. I'd love to prescribe an antidote, but if there is one, I don't know about it. The best I can do is suggest that you have a clear idea of what's important to you,