A Smörgåsbord, My Kingdom for a Smörgåsbord!

I am a big believer in the Montessori method, and geek out like crazy whenever I "scout ahead" to research all the fun activities my son and I will get to do further down the road in our homeschooling adventure. I had been eagerly anticipating the sensorial chapter of our Montessori-inspired curriculum--who wouldn't want to experiment with textures and scents and colors and temperatures and sounds?--but my son so far has not shared in my enthusiasm. I've thought about this a lot (and worried about it and laughed about it and cried about it and written about it) but all for naught. I'm still not really certain why my son continues to mainly ignore the sensorial activities in favor of transferring rice and pouring water for the (seemingly) thousandth time. I have a some theories, though. He could still be adjusting to the idea of homeschooling (wait, Mommy is my teacher?!?) and its attendant structure; the timing could be wrong (kids learn when they're ready to learn); the myriad distractions of late (DMV stuff, playdates, heat, humidity, his dad's changing work schedule) could be making it difficult for him to concentrate on new concepts. And I have another hypothesis. One that's been nagging at me since we started doing sensorial activities. One that calls into question our very curriculum.

Here's the thing: you can't really homeschool Montessori-style. Not at first, anyway. In traditional Montessori classrooms, all four walls are lined with shelves, each shelf full of materials for myriad activities. There are practical life activities available, and sensorial activities, and language and numerial and geography and science activities. There's usually a reading nook packed with miscellaneous books and often some puzzles as well. The traditional Montessori classroom is a veritable smörgåsbord of educational activities. And (this is key) Montessori students are allowed--nay, encouraged!--to follow their interests; throughout the course of each school day, they choose the activities that most intrigue them. The problem with trying to homeschool in a Montessori sort of way is obvious: I do not have a Montessori classroom (a scholastic smörgåsbord, if you will) contained within my home. Not only that, the books I'm using to guide me in my endeavors (Teach Me to Do It Myself, Teaching Montessori in the Home) advocate presenting the materials in a sequential manner; that is to say, following a set teacher-dictated curriculum (practical life then sensorial then numerial then language, etc.) rather than allowing my child to choose from a wide range of educational activities. Don't get me wrong, my son is still allowed a relatively huge measure of freedom in our homeschool. It's not like I'm sitting across from him with flashcards, saying, "And now we shall practice our letters. Repeat after me." I mean, the kid still hasn't tried folding the washcloths again, three months after his first attempt. And that's fine, it's his choice. But we've been struggling for the past month because he hasn't really wanted to do any of the new (sensorial) activities, and the old (practical life) activities have started to bore him. And I, stubborn, inertial Taurus that I am, have just kept plodding along, dutifully pulling out our school shelves and believing--against ample evidence to the contrary--that my son will suddenly get inspired by sandpaper and fabric and stuff.

Another theory of mine (I call it the scads-of-time-sitting-in-the-baby-carrier theory): Parker's not amazingly excited about our sensorial activities because they feel a little "old hat" to him, and they feel "old hat" because he spent a significant part of the past three years in our Sherpani backpack, like a monkey on my back, as I walked and walked and talked. Allow me to digress for a moment and eulogize the best baby-related product I've ever bought (actually my mom bought it for me, but that's beside the point)... Nevermind, the way I feel about our Sherpani backpack defies description. I'm kind of in denial about the fact that Parker has finally outgrown it. It's still sitting by our front door, next to our shoes, and I'm sure I'll start sobbing uncontrollably when I eventually get around to putting it away. There hasn't been a toy, a book, a crib, a nursing bra or a stuffed animal that has more enhanced my life and my son's life than that backpack. He was nine-months-old when we got it, and for the next almost two-and-a-half years I strapped him in it so that we could take a walk together at least every other day. The thing about a baby carrier backpack (as opposed to a stroller) is that your kid is right there with you, just over your shoulder, seeing (and hearing and smelling and touching) all the same things as you. And, because he's right there, just over your shoulder, you can talk to him. Sure, when we first started out, our conversations were a little one-sided ("Ooh, I see a horse, Parker! A caballo!" Drool drips down my shoulder.), but soon enough we were having grand discussions about everything we were experiencing as we walked around our neighborhood. We talked about (and smelled!) the flowers we passed, we stopped to touch the needles on cacti, we reveled in cool breezes and we mimicked the different traffic sounds we heard. He loved it when I'd purposefully walk under a low-hanging tree branch so that the leaves would brush against his face, and he laughed gleefully whenever I walked along the edge of a trail so that he could reach out and touch tree trunks ("Doesn't the bark feel rough, Parker?"). The aforementioned theory is this: my son was doing sensorial activities pretty much every time we went for a walk together, so the sensorial activities I've recently prepared for school just don't pique his curiosity. He's ready for something new.

One final note: The "something new" is indisputably the alphabet. Parker can't get enough of learning about letters. He spontaneously reaches out to trace letters when we read books together, he asks which letter certain words start with, he walks up to signs he sees around town and identifies the letters he knows. If he were in a traditional Montessori classroom, I'm sure he'd be reaching for the materials to do language activities nine times out of ten. So today, when we were at the beach, we practiced writing letters in the sand, which is similar to a particular Montessori activity. It was fun.

Innovation Up Ahead

Yesterday's Library Excursion

There's something about the tail end of the summer. The days feel so slow, the late summer heat infecting me with an unshakable case of lethargy. At the same time, the knowledge that the end is near--that autumn fast approaches--is inescapable. My son and I don't have to stress about the first day of school, but most of his friends do. I've been skipping homeschool sessions in favor of playdates a lot lately so that Parker can get as much playtime as possible with his buds before they head back to their classrooms. While my son's friends all reunite with their teachers and classmates and get down to the business of school, Parker and I will be bouncing around five states for almost two months, visiting family and friends and attending a wedding, two birthdays, a triathlon, a melée up a mountain and a melon festival. One of the downsides--for me, the biggest downside--of living in the Caribbean is being so far away from loved ones. I miss my sisters, my brother, my mom, my dad, my husband's mom and dad, my niece, my cousins, my childhood friends, my college friends... (The list goes on.) It's not enough to see them only every so often; if I had my druthers, they'd all live within driving distance. Yes, it's a small world, but not small enough for me. So I pack my suitcase a couple times a year, fly myself and my son back to the USA and try to get my fill of as many of my beloveds as I can. (And if I get to do a little shopping at Trader Joe's and Target, too, well, that's what you call icing.) One of the upsides--not the biggest upside, but a good one nonetheless--of homeschooling my son is that I don't have to plan our travels around a school's calendar.

I wrote about unschooling in my last post, and I will definitely be borrowing from its philosophy of allowing children to learn through their natural life experiences while my son and I are away on our potentially epic five-state adventure. As it has in the past, just getting ourselves to the St. Thomas airport alone will provide multiple learning opportunities, from packing our suitcases to buying our ferry tickets to driving across St. Thomas (past road construction, cruise ships, a cargo port and a bazaar). We'll be flying into eight different airports; bustling, exhilarating hotbeds of excitement for a young, inquisitive mind. And, when we have some downtime from the sporting events and melons and birthday cakes, my son and I will happily have at our hands any number of zoos, museums and exhibits. However, I do intend to at least somewhat keep up with our homeschooling (and my blogging!). Some Montessori materials I will be able to pack, but others I'll improvise using whatever I can find around us. We can practice identifying different odors while sitting in an airplane (the first class passengers' hot meal, the perfume wafting off the lady in front of us, the carafe of coffee the flight attendant is proffering, Parker's stinky feet). Similarly, we can practice identifying textures and sounds while playing in my in-laws' backyard or visiting my sister's apartment in the city. Forced innovation, it should be fun; for me, and for my son as well.

Home vs. Un

At the Library

Well, this morning resembled most other Monday mornings for us. Parker and I were both excited to do school (he pulled out the shelves himself almost immediately after I came home from my walk), but we had a laundry list of errands to do before we could start our school day (DMV, library, hardware store, cable bill payment, mail center). However, instead of hurrying through our errands (is it even possible to rush through the DMV?) in an attempt to squeeze in some school before naptime, I slowed down and looked around for learning opportunities while we were out and about. I wrote earlier about how I'm just starting to accept the (somewhat ego-deflating) fact that my son learns just as much outside of school as he does during our homeschooling sessions. (So much for my dreams of becoming a homeschool teacher extraordinaire!) This is especially true when I make a concerted effort to teach him about things throughout the course of the day. For example, on one of our many recent trips to the DMV, I saw a paperclip lying on the ground; I picked it up, told Parker what it was and showed him how it worked. I compared it to the staple that was holding my sheaf of DMV paperwork together and had Parker practice using the paperclip. (Sure, the paperclip was technically trash--who knows how many people had stepped on it already--but we were waiting in line at the DMV. What else were we going to do?) This morning, on our final (huzzah!) trip to the DMV, Parker crawled under my chair and told me he was a baby chinchilla growing inside an egg and that I was sitting on top of him to keep him warm until he hatched. This started a conversation about chinchillas and, inevitably, a debate (OK, argument) about how baby chinchillas are born.

Before I started this homeschooling adventure, I'd thought that choosing to keep one's child out of formal school-like institutions in favor of educating him in the home was as extreme as a parent could get with regard to her offspring's education. Silly me, there's no such thing as "the most extreme" in this country. Apparently, some people consider homeschooling to be too rigid and choose to "unschool" instead. Unschooling is an educational philosophy created in the 1970s that is focused on letting children learn through "natural life experiences" rather than through a traditional school curriculum. Now, I wouldn't say that our homeschool's Montessori-inspired syllabus resembles a "traditional school curriculum" by any means, but I do have to admit (as I did a couple posts ago) that the structure of our homeschool seems to sometimes chafe my son's sensibilities. In light of this (also because I'm just naturally incredibly curious), I've read a bit about unschooling, and I've found it inspiring. I'm not going to quit the Montessori method or anything, but I do find it both exciting and freeing to view the world at large as an (amazingly complex and stimulating!) extension of our little homeschool.

It wasn't like I was an automatron mom before I discovered this thing called unschooling. Anyone who has a small child knows that parenting pretty much equals teaching, particularly during the first few years of life. But I can't say I was always seeking out teaching opportunities, and I can say that, since we started homeschooling, I've often felt harried as I've tried to zip through chores and errands so that my son and I can do school most every morning. Well, this morning I had unschooling in mind. I didn't hurry and, though we didn't do any of our homeschool activities, my son discussed anatomy, zoology and pest control with me, practiced tracing uppercase letters and observed commerce in action. And, since we weren't trying to hurry home to do school, we were able to enjoy a pleasant lunch together at our local bakery. (And I was CALM the whole time!)

Postscript: The library had some leftover workbooks lying about on a table by the checkout counter today. Parker spontaneously opened one up, asked to borrow a crayon and started tracing some letters. Also (as I mentioned in a previous post), he's been very interested in his body and how it works. Since he has absolutely loved his two Usborne "Flip Flap" books about (respectively) farms and airports, I purchased the Usborne "See Inside Your Body" flap book for him, even though it's technically for ages 8 and up. He gets very intent when we read it. So far, he likes the sections about the respiratory system and the digestive system best. This morning, as he was drinking some water, Parker said, "And you know, Mommy, when I drink water it slides down my throat into my bladder and then I pee it out." I smiled and replied, "Well, I'm pretty sure the water goes into your tummy first." There was a brief pause and then Parker pedantically responded, "No, Mommy, not my tummy. My stomach."

Lunch

Gratuitous Picture

(Island Animal Life)

Let's Talk Tempo

TODAY'S ACTIVITIES:

• Dressing Busy Board
• Transferring
• Cutting

"Stoic observation. Stoic observation. Stoic observation." That's what I kept repeating to myself, mantra-like, as I pulled out our school shelves this morning. It's a little funny that I'm now struggling to rein in my emotions, given that my father (also, eventually, several therapists) used to beseech me to open up and talk about how I felt. I was a pretty phlegmatic kind of kid. My own child seems to feel no compunctions about wearing his heart on his sleeve; the way he carries on at times makes me wonder whether he'll end up being a Shakespearean actor, or the next Pacino or Shatner. Which I suppose is just desserts for me. (Or not. There doesn't always have to be an explanation, you know.) Anyway, I did OK keeping my anxieties about school less apparent today. I didn't do that well with the sitting back and observing, but that was my son's fault, not mine. He likes to talk, a lot. And not monologues, either; he expects full-on back-and-forth, give-and-take conservations. Also, he wanted me to do school with him right from the get-go ("Let's take turns with my yellow board, Mommy!"), so my sit-on-the-sofa-and-watch plan effectively got tossed out the window before my butt even hit the cushions.

But because noninvolvement had at least been my aim, I did do better at not interjecting my two cents every five seconds. When my son stood by the shelves for several minutes, fingering the materials, I didn't say, "What do you want to do? Which activity? Want to try the blocks again? How about the fabric basket? If you want to do the tongs, don't just sit there, eating the crunchy pasta. Bring the activity over to your table. Please." I just waited (stoic observation!), and he eventually left the pasta alone (temporarily satiated, I guess) and grabbed the transferring materials. Later, I got to thinking about pacing. You see, I'm starting to realize that a lot of the turmoil I'm feeling about our homeschool has its roots in my unconscious expectation that our school look/feel like the schools I have taught in and attended. I get anxious because my son isn't doing what he's "supposed to do," I worry that there's not enough structure, I feel frustrated that he doesn't follow my instructions, I crave "ta da!" moments and tangible results (like worksheets I can draw a happy face on and affix to the refrigerator door). And I get really really nervous when there's a lull in the action, when my son pauses for a few minutes, when he looks (emphasis on the word looks) unengaged. Teachers are taught to conduct their classes with a quick tempo; lecture, worksheet, quiz, lecture, worksheet, quiz. Give the kids a few minutes of free time, and they'll get restless and look for ways to misbehave. Untasked kids mean unruly kids. Well, I think that's a pretty pessimistic way to view our youth. Just because they don't look like they're doing anything of note, who's to know what's going on inside their brains. It's actually kind of fun to wait and see what happens after a kid's been sitting there ruminating for awhile. The results are often not only surprising, but ingenious, too. We should change that old saying to, "Idle hands are the mind's workshop."

Now to put all that into effect. It's one thing to sit here and blog about how I'm not going to be a slave to my conditioning; how I'm not going to be a monkey on my son's back during school just because aspects our homeschooling sessions clash with more traditional school methods. Changing the way I behave is another thing entirely. But I'll do my best. I'll keep trying to let go of this instinctual urge to control. And it does work. Today I didn't bug Parker about how he was holding the scissors or about trying to hold the paper himself (as opposed to making me hold it), and he got creative: he balanced the paper so that it would hang over the table's edge and then cut it, unassisted. When I reached out to help him position the paper (not stoic observation, I know), he said, "No, Mommy. I can do it by myself."

School Is Hard

Hi again. I'm sorry I've been away for so long. It's been hot, and Life's been hectic. And my son, while approaching angelic in most other ways, has been decidedly demonic about school (when we've had time to do it), so I haven't really had much to report. For the past week and a half, school has pretty much gone like this: I pull out the school shelves, Parker does some transferring or pouring or dusting, Parker announces he's all done with school, I encourage him to work with the graduated blocks or the scissors or what have you, Parker gives a (frankly) half-assed attempt at the activity then starts using the materials inappropriately (sliding blocks across the floor at breakneck speeds, trying to cut the tabletop), I step in and remind him of the objective of the activity, Parker walks away.

The thing is, we've been lately having a blast (and learning stuff!) outside of our school sessions. We've been building pulley systems, pretending to be macaroni penguins ("Let's go dive for some squid, Mommy Penguin!") and roadrunners ("It's hot in the desert, so I need some prickly pear juice, Mommy Roadrunner.") and talking about how our bodies work ("My intestines are full so I need to go poo.") And that "tyrannical threes" phase I told you about? The light at the of the tunnel is fast approaching. My son has been cooperating with me, listening more attentively and allowing me to help and/or guide him when necessary. We've had a bunch of ho-hum errands to do lately (bank boredom, DMV dreariness, trip planning tedium), and he's accompanied me throughout it all with minimal protest. Then the school bell rings, and I'm suddenly sitting next to the second coming of Mr. Hyde.

On a good day, I think, "It's just a(nother) phase. This too shall pass. I know I'm on the right course." On a so-so day, I start doubting, and run through the endless list of maybes: "Maybe it's too hot. Maybe he's too tired. Maybe the timing is wrong. Maybe he's bored. Maybe he's too stimulated. Maybe I shouldn't interfere so much. Maybe he needs more structure so I should interfere more. Maybe maybe maybe maybe maybe..." On a bad day, I find myself inevitably alternating between anger and dismay. One minute I'm biting my tongue so I won't shout at my son, and the next I'm struggling to swallow the lump in my throat, blinking fast to keep the tears at bay. My husband thinks I'm too invested. "You're taking it too seriously," he says to me as I sob into his shoulder, having greeted his arrival home from work with a full and complete meltdown. Of course I'm taking it seriously! It's our son! It's his education! Early childhood is one of the most vulnerable stages of life! This will effect him for the rest of his life! But I think what Mike means to say is, "You're too emotional about this," and there I'll agree. The evidence is undeniable: when we're playing together, my son not only gets along with me (relatively well--this is a three-year-old I'm talking about) but learns from me; my son fights me and refuses to let me guide (read: teach) him when we're doing school. The only difference between playtime and school time is me; or more to the point, my behavior. I often feel fraught with anxiety during school. ("Am I doing this right? Is he enjoying this? He's not cutting along the lines. Should I say something? Should I tell him to hold the scissors correctly? Oh no! I shouldn't have said anything! He feels discouraged, I can tell!") Kids are notoriously gifted at intuiting their parents' emotions. My son feels my anxiety and it makes him uncomfortable. How could it not? Have you ever been around an extremely anxious person? No fun, no fun at all. So he starts acting out and ultimately gives up in an unfocused but undeniable attempt to escape an agitated, irritating emotional environment.

I'm not sure what to do about this. Well, calm down, of course, but how? And, no, "Mother's Little Helper" is not an option for me. (Unless you're talking about the song. It's a good song, I like it. Though I'm not sure listening to it will help me in any tangible way.) Just keep swimming, I suppose. And step back a little for the next few weeks. Pull out the school shelves and sit down on the sofa and observe. Here's my question, though: Really? What if he doesn't put the materials back? Or mishandles them? Or or or...? Argh. School is hard.

Pulley fun

"I Love You" card for Kitty