My lesson hour

I had the privilege accompanying my daughter to her classroom last night. I along with a handful of somewhat willing parents were lead around by our child from one station to next. The teacher adamantly made it clear that the night was the students. There were no instructions except to the student and that was that they can show their parent anything they want to as long as they’ve had a lesson on it. What struck me the most wasn’t the neatly laid trays or the washed linens that the children had hung but rather the intense discipline it took for the adults in the room to constrain themselves. It was almost sadly entertaining.

In a 24 hour period, a child’s day is typically completely dictated by an adult whether a teacher, parents, daycare worker etc. They are told what to do and how and when. They’re told how to behave or what to say. They’re even told how to apologize when they’ve done something “wrong” that they can’t comprehend to begin with.  Little toy soldiers marching about in accordance to adult world standards. It must be exhausting. Sadly, it seemed even more exhausting for the parents to not be in control.

I was silent while my daughter sheepishly looked about the room. Despite the on-going conversations about what she will do and how she will teach me days prior it appeared the adrenaline was quickly lost when adults were hovering over and I waited silently. Finally after much thought, she chose the bead wall to be the venue in which she’d reveal her vast amounts of skills and knowledge. I watched as she fetched a small rug and laid it down decisively. I started to scoot towards it when I was abruptly stopped by her hand straight out in the air as she shook her head saying “No, no no. You can’t sit on it” with an apologetic tone. “Oh” I said “Ok, thanks for letting me know.” She began laying down a strand of beads and placing small arrows with numbers at the bead it correlated with. “One, two, three, four, five” she’d whisper and then lay down the tiny gray “5” arrow. The other arrows were set in a neat row above her bead strand as she began to count again. “one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten”. Then she paused and surveyed the other arrows that were labeled 10, 15 , 20 and 25. She grabbed the 20 arrow and placed it down and began to count again from the very first bead. “One, two, three” and so on. When she arrived at bead 15 she searched for the arrow. Realizing that the previous was incorrect, she fixed it and finished the bead chain.

I found it interesting how extremely difficult it was to constrain myself in pointing out her mistake. Furthermore, as she returned to the first bead every time she started to place the next arrow I wondered how long I was to endure her counting the beads from the beginning instead of simply starting at 5 or 10. I wanted so desperately to impart my witty and easy tip as it would make her little mind expand twice as quickly! If only she had my help! I’m so important you know. After all, isn’t her classroom my personal space of expertise as well? But despite my instinct to guide, train, correct, “teach” her. . . I sat. Waiting. Waiting is so difficult yet we ask it of our children everyday. As well as our friends and family for that matter. It’s simply who we are. We ask for patience and grace yet it all of a sudden becomes a complex dilemma when we are to grant it ourselves. She rolled up her mat and carefully picked up the beads correcting me on how to hold them as not to accidentally hit another student in the head while I was walking (a sure sign that this observation had taken place earlier in the year). I told her that she really seemed to know her numbers and the order that they go. Then I asked her how long it took her to learn all of this stuff. “Well, the blue chain is really, really, REALLY hard” she replied not answering my question. But it wasn’t about me. I couldv’e asked her again how long it took but I realized – she doesn’t care so why should I? BINGO!  She had brought me to a lesson that has been the most difficult for her and she started with the hardest chain to show me as an example. That takes some serious guts. She couldv’e shown me anything but the bead wall let alone picked an easier chain to start with. But it was her night. She was the teacher and given enough silence and patience on my part, had taught me a difficult task with grace and precision.

Meanwhile I observed other parents talking to one another as their child tugged at their shirt. “Ok just wait a minute honey, I’m talking to Mrs. Harris” they told their kids. Unknowingly requesting them to wait in a situation that they shouldn’t ever have to. But of course, if a child tried to tell their parent “no, I want you to see this” then they risk the label of talking back and the punishment that follow. I had the luxury of not knowing many parents and my own husband was out of town so my focus was able to be on my kid. But what if that wasn’t the case? I wonder if I’d make the same observations. I asked the teacher as we were leaving if they ever instructed the kids to begin at bead 5 or bead 10 and then count up from there versus beginning with the first bead everytime. She said that they didn’t need to instruct them because after enough repetition, the children learn this naturally and it’s much more beneficial for them to come upon that discovery by themselves. If a child asks, then they would reply something like “that’s a good question, how about we find out?”.

It’s so difficult to wait. To think that maybe. Just maybe – I’m not the expert in my children’s lives. Or even WORSE! My family or friends. YIKES! I don’t know everything? I don’t have their solutions? That they might have something valuable in from their perspective to show me and if I talked or instructed, I completely destroy that beautiful encounter that could have taken place.

It’s difficult to be silent. It’s hard to wait. Maybe it’s because it requires a smidgen of humility. And humility is in low demand these days. . .