Getting Schooled

Imagine sitting down to a preschool story time.  Every child is given something to hold.  They are urged to scoot up close.   Everyone on the carpet has a stake in what happens next.  They are lost to the story.  When it ends, the teacher smoothly guides them to their next activity by allowing them to make a choice.  It is revolutionary.  Pictures with words direct their movement, while preventing disruption.  An occasional visitor to the land of preschool may marvel at the deft maneuvering of so many little bodies and wills.  They may walk out the door asking themselves in wonder, how does she do that? An experienced early childhood educator would know every component was well planned, adjusted, and relentlessly reinforced.  A peaceful preschool classroom full of engaged learners is no happy accident.  Classroom management is crucial to young children’s learning.

 You would think someone working towards a degree in Early Childhood Education would have grasped this concept by graduation.  For me, that was unfortunately not the case.  Instead, I began my first year of teaching preschool with a woefully empty bag of tricks.  I remember feverishly hatching plans with my assistant teacher on lesson plan topics, learning activities, and field trips.

 What we didn’t plan for could fill a book, its title being:   Classroom Management–  Without It, You Will Die.

And death I wished for, or at least alternate employment, as I crawled gratefully out of my classroom every day.   My dream classroom filled with compliant children was an utter sham. To set foot inside was to enter a war zone.  Every part of the day was a disaster.  The children ran wildly like a herd of elephants through the room.  They wandered away from circle time like antelope grazing on the Serengeti.  They blatantly refused to put their toys away.  Nothing compares to the hopeless despair of an unsuccessful clean up time with 17 three and four year olds.  I was beginning to think cooperative preschoolers were urban legends.

In addition, they were beating each other up like brawlers in a closing time bar fight.  Every time we changed activities, it was the Running of the Bulls all over again.  Lining up to go outside, someone would invariably be pummeled to the ground.  Returning inside often required carrying one of our students in kicking and screaming.  The noise level in the classroom was not the happy buzz of learning, but rather full of loud whining and crying... staff included.  My spirit was nearly broken.

So in desperation I asked my supervisor, Glenda, to observe.  I was hoping she could tell me exactly what was wrong with this particular group of children, especially the one little guy who emitted piercing screams whenever given a direction.  Glenda was a walking wealth of knowledge and experience.  I was certain she would insist that my entire classroom be evaluated immediately.

Glenda sat silently throughout the observation, scratching down notes, and barely hiding a subtle Mona Lisa smile.  After class, she sat me down to review the observation.  I took one look at her calm demeanor and kind blue eyes before completely surrendering to my panic.  I could wait no longer.  I blurted out the screamer’s name, demanding “What is wrong with that child?”

           Glenda, in her painstakingly polite tone and charming English accent said, “I do believe he is a perfectly normal and quite intelligent little boy.”  She paused artfully.  I nodded and responded cautiously, “Well yes, he does seem smart...but… what is all that screaming about?”  She leaned closer as she broke my rookie teacher’s heart with her next words, “What I think we have here is an issue of… classroom management.”

I thought Classroom management?  My mind desperately ran in all directions like a rat in a maze, trying to locate any and all knowledge on the term.  Let’s see, the management part was obvious enough.  That was me.  I was the lead teacher; I managed the classroom.  I seemed to vaguely recall something about organization and... control?  Wait a minute ...doth my ears deceive me?  Surely she wasn’t suggesting this crazy mess was my fault? 

 After recovering from my shock, I felt sorry for myself for a suitable amount of time.  Eventually, I took her suggestions to heart.  One of her observations was that I was allowing too much wait time for children.  When forced to wait, they abandoned the task at hand and went on to something more entertaining, like poking their neighbor in the eye.

  She also suggested we look at our schedule.  This puzzled me and I told her so.  We already had a schedule.  She must be confused.  Poor thing, she is getting up there in years, I thought to myself.   For heaven’s sake, I knew the schedule.  My assistant knew the schedule.  Even our aide knew the schedule.  “But my dear,” Glenda asked, interrupting my private rant of her incompetent observation skills, “do the children know it?”

              Within two weeks, I had integrated some major missing pieces into my classroom:  a daily picture schedule, planned transition activities, role play to demonstrate the rules, and small group activities to teach appropriate play and clean up skills.  The children, for the very first time since they set foot inside my classroom, were being taught what they were expected to do.  To this day, I can’t imagine why I expected three and four year olds to read my mind.  

 The difference was remarkable, especially for my little screamer.  He was enthralled with the daily picture schedule.   His little face, all bright brown eyes, lit up with pleasure; in his mind, he was reading.  I soon made him a small set of his own to carry around the room.  I routinely warned him of upcoming transitions and involved him in a job while they took place.    His screaming lessened as he became aware of what was happening around him, what he should be doing, and what was going to happen next.  With positive reinforcement, his behavior continued to improve.

And so my bag of tricks grew year by year.  Trainings further honed my skills in transition planning, clear expectations, and age appropriate circle times.  Watching seasoned teachers taught me how to anticipate children’s needs and individualize for their learning style.  I also learned through reflection at the end of each day.  I could no longer smell the stench of failure on my flesh.   I could now manipulate the daily picture schedule, manage a flannel story, and reach behind my back for a transition activity like a professional circus performer spinning plates.  What wait time?

          In addition, a glorious special education teacher introduced me to visual cues.  Watching 17 children instantly quiet themselves in response to the slow, elegant sweep of a picture card made me glad to be alive.  It was pure magic.  From that moment on, I wallowed in visuals.

Consequently, the happy dividend of meeting children’s needs was that I began to enjoy my job again.   I actually looked forward to coming to work each day.  I ran a circle time no child could resist.  I supported those who struggled.   I taught.  My classroom had become, most days, a preschool utopia.  On the days that were not sublime, learning still took place.

I have since moved from the classroom to a support specialist position within my program.   I observe both infant/toddler and preschool classrooms.  I’ve seen various teaching styles and multiple challenging behaviors.  Before setting up supports for any one child, I always closely examine what the caregivers in the room are doing – or not doing.  And as I begin to advise a harried, sweating, red-faced teacher who’s ready to throw up her hands and run for the door, I take a moment to remember being in her shoes.  Then I do my best to help her the way Glenda helped me.

            Now, more than ever, I contend that classroom management is crucial to young children’s learning.  Without a solid foundation of routine and expectations, direct teaching of pro-social behaviors, and individual support, learning outcomes will certainly suffer.  Frontloading these efforts is the single most valuable lesson I have learned. 

 If asked today to step back into the ring, I would no sooner attempt to teach without my bag of tricks than I would enter a prize fight with both hands tied behind my back.  Honestly, what would be the point?