Eyes Wide Open

Eyes Wide Open

My first and perhaps most valuable assignment in graduate school was deceptively simple. It was to do nothing but observe. “Make yourselves invisible,” we students were told. "Be a piece of furniture in the preK classroom. Do nothing -- just watch.” I had a similar assignment in a social science methodology course. We were asked to select any one of several everyday social settings. I chose the meat department of a supermarket. My task was to take notes about the sequence of behaviors of two or three meat shoppers. I thought just what you’re thinking right now: What could there be to say about such mundane behavior? Remarkably, though, I had a full notepad in no time. One shopper surveyed the entire meat case, as I might do at a buffet before deciding where to invest my calorie intake. After the once-over, she went back to the chicken section, picked up one or two birds, studied them and their prices, moved along to pork and then several cuts of lamb, and finally returned to the chicken and settled on a roaster, with some hesitation.

She, and most people I observed, carried on a barely audible monologue; they were concentrating solely on the task of meat selection. No one asked me what I was doing there. They were too absorbed. I had succeeded at being a piece of furniture.

It wasn’t as easy to do that in the nursery school. There, my natural instinct was to engage children in conversation — to have fun with them and by the way, show the instructor how “good I was with children.” We were asked to focus totally on only one child -- not to interact with him, but to note everything he did in a 10-minute period. This went on for a whole semester. Our brief observations were soon extended to one whole morning a week.

By the end of the semester we had each closely studied the behavior of one or two assigned children and had collected a remarkably rich portrait of “our kids’” idiosyncratic behavior. Ultimately we could predict what would occur in the coming minutes, having watched friendships grow and antagonisms deepen. We knew what activities were preferred, and which avoided, by the objects of our observations.

A few graduate students complained, “Haven’t we done enough of this?” But the value of observational training became clearer to me as time went on: We were learning to forget ourselves and focus our complete attention on an individual child; to tune in to everything from mannerisms to motor, cognitive, social-emotional skills and styles; and even to the played-out fantasies of “our" children.

In time, it became possible to do that without holding strictly to the “piece of furniture” injunction. I remember the emergence of the skill of “tuning in” with almost as much delight as I remember the realization at the age of 6 that I was really reading. I highly recommend such training in tuning in for all of life’s interpersonal endeavors -- parenting included. But skip the part about being a piece of furniture, please! As parents, we need to observe, listen, tune in, and be engaged. That’s all there is to it. (Right!)

December 18, 2007

Don't Touch That Dial!

Don't Touch That Dial!

I’ve said it many times already in this venue. I love words, books, and reading. They have enriched my life -- every year and day of it for as long as I can remember, probably longer. But I am beginning to tire of hearing and seeing all the urging of parents to try this scheme or that to get kids to read. And then there is all the worrying and hovering over whether the kids are reading, I fear that this near obsession is likely to have a paradoxical effect, particularly with adolescents.

Some years ago, well before the current “Crunch Time” warnings about reading, we were visiting a friend whose 15-year-old son wasn’t the reader his father thought he ought to be. It was clear that a lot of nagging went on in that house on a regular basis. The young man announced after dinner that he was “going over to Jimmy’s house.” “What are you going to do there?” asked his dad. The instantaneous answer: “Read, of course!”

Not a dumb kid, as you can see; and not one who was going to succumb to parental pressure or nagging. (Postscript: he turned out okay; became a teacher of deeply disturbed adolescents and then got a graduate degree in social work. I observed him at work and was astonished at his gifts–his ability to enable severely disorganized kids to calm down, get to work, and get along.)

So we have to allow for individual differences and know when to introduce kids to the pleasures of language, oral and written. We are most likely to succeed if we make the opportunities available, but not pre-scripted. There is no one right way to read to a baby or young child. The books (carefully chosen for age-appropriateness) and parental enthusiasm are all that is needed.

I watched my 3½-year-old and 9-month-old grandsons playing this past weekend. Both brothers get excited about books. There is no better gift, as far as they are concerned. Well, the materials for pretend play, like a chef’s outfit, got equal raves from the bigger guy. But fully outfitted as Chef, with spatula and strainer spoon dangling and clanging, he brought books to me to read, and his favorite self-selected game was an alphabet puzzle. My enthusiasm and applause were certainly valuable, but he chose and stuck with the game.

The baby did what he is expected to do with the sturdy books I brought: took a few hearty bites, chortled, and waved the book in the air, with first one hand and then the other, all while sitting up — significant developmental achievements. If I had insisted that he touch this and see that, it would not have been half the fun as it was with him in charge.

But here is the best news for parents who want to encourage kids to love books. You have come to the right place. Here are some of my favorite resources right here on Scholastic.com. No need to look further; so “DON’T TOUCH THIS DIAL!”

• Grab the opportunity to enjoy Susan B. Neuman's splendid advice about books and reading with the youngest children.
• Francie Alexander is enormously encouraging and insightful about sharing the delight of reading, particularly with older school-aged children.
• Don't miss any of the pieces from my fellow Scholastic blogger, "Librarian Mom" Els Kushner.

December 13, 2007

The roar of the crowd

The roar of the crowd

On a recent perfect fall Saturday afternoon, I had the pleasure of watching a group of 7 and 8 year old girls engrossed in a rousing soccer game. They were as focused as any coach could want them to be; for this was “travel soccer” in a northeast suburban town. Those chosen for these two teams are among the most focused for their age, surpassing the kids selected for intramural town teams. Anyone who wants to play has a chance; but only the most talented young athletes and those who would not be distracted by the array of cheering parents and grandparents or by the seductively perfect fall day were elected to play travel soccer.

My granddaughter’s team had been undefeated so far and it was late in the season. They were winning again, as she had apologetically predicted they would. She had been politely apologetic because her hometown team was playing my hometown team. It was difficult for her to believe my frank assertion that I would break ranks and root for her rather than the town that sends my quarterly tax bills. Such sensitivity is in part predictable for a 7 year old, a girl earnest about doing the right thing. (Remember, she’s the one who recently shared her dismay for still liking doll play -- confessing that at her age, she wasn’t "supposed to"). Probably more than ever before or ever again, 7 and 8 year old girls seek to do "the right thing."

I am no longer bound by those middle childhood “rules,” so in the second half of the game, when our girl’s team was winning by a more than comfortable margin, my attention drifted toward a younger child in the crowd. I’d say he was about 2½ or 3, and no doubt his sister was a player. The rules and goals of the game would have to elude him at his age. I imagined what he saw was a lot of running by girls and shouting by adults, including his dad, whose attention was on the playing field. The little guy didn’t complain, but in swinging on his dad’s legs and circling around Daddy, he was making a modest plea for attention.

That all changed, though, when, while playing ring-around-the-rosy with Daddy’s legs, he plopped down in a pile of colorful leaves. Then his focus was as complete as the soccer players’. He was in the world of those remarkable leaves, admiring their color, their texture, their ability to float when thrown in the air. One leaf in particular warranted even closer inspection. He felt the veins, ran his finger along them, smiled with satisfaction and continued his immersion in examining that wonder -- a reddish maple leaf, with specs of green and yellow. He traced his fingers along its crispness. No longer bored or restless, he was focused enough to qualify for any travel team.

But only he and I knew that; and he didn’t know about me. It was a good day for a toddler who had found the pleasure of focusing without the impetus of cheering crowds or medals. I hope that such pristine pleasures remain with all 5 of my grandchildren, even those engaged on public playing fields. They deserve life's quiet joys, as well as cheering crowds.

December 4, 2007