Bullying, Racism, Death, Germs, and Other Uplifting Topics That Are Hard to Talk About With Children

Is this a space suit or a hazmat suit?

We are in the midst of the coronavirus epidemic and schools here have officially closed down. My husband did not read his emails this morning, but he did misread the clock and got everyone up an hour early! But, thank G-d, he's also home and has all 3 kids outside for some fresh air and play. Adults right now are all very worried and in some ways this worry is helpful when it comes to taking preventative measures and precautions. In other ways, the mass hysteria and misleading information out there can be hindering. And as much as we are aiming to protect our families and communities right now, our children are aware of our heightened concern--whether overtly so or not. And this makes me reflect on talking to young children about tough topics like this. We waver between wanting to protect and wanting to inform. S has already come home from school talking about washing his hands extra carefully every time before he eats to "protect from the Virus." What does he know about Covid19? What does he wonder? Is he worried or afraid? When it comes to talking about tough topics like illness, death, race/racism, bullying, sex, etc., where do we start? And where should we stop?

There is not, unfortunately, a simple and foolproof answer here. There is a delicate balance between giving too much information and not enough and that is different from time to time and from child to child. In addition, when our children bring up topics that are tough to talk about, we can easily be caught off guard and begin to make assumptions. When this happens, we may handle the discussion in a less helpful way. I often advise others (and myself) to begin with what they know. And the easiest way to do this is to ask! Let me give you a really unique example from last night:

My husband was giving S a bath and we have a couple of baby dolls in the tub right now for washing and playing. S asked for a doll to play with and my husband handed him one. It happened to be a doll with dark skin. We have a set of 4 of these dolls in varying skin tones. S said "I don't want the one with the dark skin, I want the one with the light skin." My husband was caught off guard and even later when he began to relay the story to me, I, too, jumped to a conclusion right here. Was my 5 year old son discriminating against skin color? Surely we are raising him better than this. I was mortified and then my husband said, "wait, listen to what happened next. I remembered you told me to find out what he knows and I asked him if there was a reason he wanted the doll with the lighter skin." And sure enough there was:
"Tatty, the doll with the light skin has an open mouth and the one with the dark skin's mouth is closed. I want the one with the open mouth so I can pretend to feed him."

Amazing. If we would have started the conversation here with what we know, it would have been completely different than the one that actually took place. It probably would have also felt out of context for S, who just wanted to feed a baby doll. He once asked for a doll in a toy store that was made to resemble a baby from Asia because the doll had "real hair." The other ones had no hair. And surely, we do have conversations in context about treating differences of all kinds with kindness and sometimes those conversations will cross the barriers of race or religion or disAbility, etc.

Even in talking to our children about weapon play and games we find alarming as adults, it has been helpful to find out what they know. Sometimes this can start a conversation. Other times, the conversation may end right there, perhaps to be continued at a later date as more information is required or acquired. It is so hard for us to remember the innocence and inherent ignorance of early childhood. We want our children to be kind. We want them to feel secure. We want others to be kind to them and be safe with them.

We also need to be honest. One of the times that this can feel incredibly challenging is when the topic of death comes up, particularly if it involves a loss within the family. Whereas it was previously thought that very young children are not able to process grief at an early age, research now shows that they do in fact process grief, albeit in their own way. Many adults will gear toward the answer of "so and so went to sleep for a long time" and this can be incredibly confusing and unsettling for children. Will So-and-so wake up? Will they die if they go to sleep? Children may ask questions about death and dying. What does it feel like to die? What happens when someone dies? When will Mommy and Daddy die? When will I die? These are hard for us as adults to process and that paired with our concern about how our children will process the answers can leave us feeling overwhelmed and ill equipped. I think it is OK to say "I don't know" when you don't know. I also think it is OK to keep answers very simplistic and wait for a response to determine what (if any) information is still needed. When I was little and wondered about this, my parents explained death as when the body stops working. In all honesty, this felt like a good answer and still, to this day, does.

What about when children say things that are alarming or upsetting? Once when I was quite little, I walked up to my mother and said "shoot yourself!" She responded in a normal adult way in telling me that this wasn't a nice thing to say and then asked me what I meant. "It's what the goose said in 'Charlotte's Web!'" Ok, so the goose said "suit yourself," which I also had no understanding of but it sounded pretty cool and a little funny so I tried it. And missed a little...

But what about when tough topics involve conflict? Conflict is ever so uncomfortable for us. We may not like it ourselves as adults and we certainly don't want it for our children. And nowadays there is a strong movement toward handling bullying more strongly. In many ways, this is helpful, but I think in some ways it has gone overboard and to the other end of the spectrum where we perceive any and all conflict as bullying when, in fact, not all of it is. Particularly in regard to the preschool and below population, it is not particularly common for very young children to be "bullies." Note that I am using the word bully here to describe actions that are targeted at a particular individual or population and done with the intent to be hurtful/harmful. Most young children do not display this type of behavior, barring extreme exceptions or incidents where trauma is involved.

Most young children do display behaviors we would classify as aggressive, impulsive, hurtful/harmful. The intent may be specifically targeted at an individual, but the purpose is not to bully. Alternatively, the purpose may stem from anger and a desire to gain control or meet a need, but the target may not be specific. And conflict at this age is typical. Verbal arguments, unkind statements, even hitting/kicking/biting and other forms of physical "aggression." We understandably have a low threshold for violent acts. We can't allow children to hurt each other or be hurt. It is painful if our child is the target. Sometimes even harder when our child is the one targeting others. But we need to stop calling preschool aged children bullies. Not only is this unhelpful for children to identify what bullying really is and how to handle it, it is damaging for the child being labeled. Giving support and language and helpful tools to all parties is necessary. Understanding typical child development and recognizing if and when more support is needed is also important.

Nobody likes to hear someone tell our child "I'm not your friend anymore" or "I don't like you." But we also have an adult experience of rejection. And when we think about our own "childhood" experiences of rejection, our memories are more likely from our grade or middle school years than from our preschool years! Nonetheless, these types of statements fly across the playground on a daily basis. We jump in to "coach" with statements of "that's not nice!" or "we don't say 'you can't play,'" or "we're all friends here." But let's unpack this a bit. First of all, this business of "we're all friends here" is potentially a little unfair. Are you friends with everyone in your workplace or neighborhood? I'm not. We can all be kind and respectful, we don't all need to be friends. And even when we are friends, we don't need to always be together or be completely in sync and agreement with one another. And the statements of "that's not nice," may also be less helpful. It may not have been meant to be nice, so you may be preaching to the choir. Alternatively it may not have been the intent of the child saying something to be unkind. Take the following vignette:

A child in my class sat down at the lunch table and opened his lunchbox. The next child joined the table and one by one the spots filled up until the last of the children to wash his hands arrived with his lunchbox and one empty seat remained. "I don't want to sit next to ____" he said. I was about to go into Conflict Resolution Mode when I decided instead to ask if there was a reason. And sure enough, there was: the child sitting there had a tuna fish sandwich and the child waiting to sit down did not like the smell of tuna. I like tuna but honestly, it does smell! Another little girl said she did like the smell and offered to switch seats; problem solved.

I do not want to insinuate that in coaching and teaching our children about bullying, conflict resolution and other tough topics that we are creating the problems that do emerge as they get older. Most children at some point in their lives will experience these things in one way or another and we want them to be prepared, informed and know how to seek support. I am not the type of person that feels it is helpful or realistic to make our children blind to these ills of the world; I am the type of person that feels it is helpful to make them adequately and appropriately aware and sensitive. We've all reached that point of adulthood where we look at our kids today and ask (sometimes even out loud) "What are you thinking?!" and you know what? Tone aside, that's a good question.

Asking our children--even our very young ones--what they are thinking can be the very best place to begin a conversation that needs to follow. What do you know about ___?  What do you wonder? What questions do you have? Is there anything about ____ that worries you or that you want to know more about? Sometimes the answers won't come right away and that's OK. It's not a race, it's a marathon. But leave the door open or at least unlocked so they can return if and when need be.  And don't forget the power of play here. Some conversations are better had through play and some topics of curiosity are better noticed through play. Once in a while when S has done something he is not so proud of, he finds in helpful for Mistakey the Snakey to come out and tell me about it as opposed to him. And sometimes in those conversations, Mistakey can get quite silly. But Mommy always reminds him that even when he is a silly Snakey and makes a mistake, he can always come and talk about it and I will help him.

In fact, most of my conversations like this end with talking about help. What can help you solve this problem? Who can help you? What would be helpful now? What do you need from me right now? And the very last thing I want to remind myself and all of you: it is OK not to know. We don't like not knowing. It's uncomfortable. But not knowing can be just the right amount of fire under our feet to learn more. And if we want to raise a generation of children who desire to learn more, we need to raise a generation of children who are not uncomfortable not knowing. Model it. Embrace it. Use it for the good. And as always...

Happy Playing!

"Please See Me:" A Heartfelt Letter From Your "Favorite" Student

Dear Teacher,

Please see me.

See that I am here to learn, not because I already know.

See that I am not my behaviors or my labels or my struggles

And that any and all of these are just me trying to tell you something important that I may not have the words for yet

See that it is not that I don't know how to do this or even that I can't

But that maybe I was just given the wrong tools for the job

(Show me one person who could change a tire with a disposable spoon and I have a sandbox to sell you in Florida...)

See that I am not what I did last year

Or even what I did last Tuesday

See that I am not my sibling or my friend or that kid in your class six years ago that I remind you of

See that I am not the sum of many parts with some still missing,

I am whole, I am complete, even if I am just three feet tall

See that I am worthy of second chances

Third chances

Seven hundred and ninety-fourth chances

See that I wish I could just erase all of my mistakes

But that an eraser that size would never fit inside my pencil case

See that my parents aren't clueless (although if you are a parent, you know they all are)

It's not that they don't see this, it's that they do. Magnified at 400 percent.

See that although I also drive them crazy (and trust me, it's a short trip)

That they would go to the ends of the Earth for me

So please just go to the end of the school year

Or even just to the end of the day

See that I am not the thrown toy or the meltdown or the disruption to your class

See that when the tantrum happened, that I didn't choose it, in fact it's the last thing in the world I would choose

It doesn't feel any better to me than it does for you

See that I just want to do the Right Thing and be the Big Kid

But right now I am still small

And this little body was not designed for sitting still and being quiet, for being seen but not heard

See that I walk in here every day holding a clean slate for you

And do the same for me

Because you are already The Teacher

You are already Who You Are

And I am still Becoming

In all my wiggles and giggles and mischief and strife

I am still Becoming

And I want to be so many things

Sometimes all at the same time

Sometimes I even want to be you

So please see me

Not as what I did

Or who I was

But as what I am

And who I will Become.

Love,

Your "Favorite" Student

I'm Round, I Bounce, But I Won't Bounce Back: Opening Dialogue with Children About Body Image

Mr. Harrington was a substitute gym teacher. He lived in my best friend's neighborhood and was retired aside from the occasional gig filling in for an absent phys-ed teacher. Rumor has it that in his time at home, he could be seen jogging around the neighborhood carrying a sack full of bricks on his back and eating a stalk of raw broccoli. Why do I remember Mr. Harrington? He subbed maybe twice ever in my entire public school experience. I remember him because he is the one who told me the following statement when I could not do a tripod:

"You have poor upper body strength. You are weak and you will always be weak."

In his defense, Mr. Harrington did not know about hypotonia or low muscle tone. Neither did I and most kids didn't get PT early on for things like that back then. I was not weak, but the connection between my brain and my muscles was slower than my typically developing peers. In addition to poor upper body strength in gym class, I also had chronically low self confidence. I decided early on that I was "bad" at sports.

I never tried out for any team sports, I never chose to engage in these activities and running was definitely something reserved for people being chased, G-d forbid. I grew up significantly under the curve for height and weight most of the time. When schools used to do the pinch test for BMI, I came up as the "fattest" kid in my class, nonetheless, because the ratio of muscle to fat was higher than most of my peers'. I had a "hollow leg" and could "eat whatever I wanted." "Where did I put it all?" "When I stood sideways, I disappeared!" I intuited a lot of ideas about size, weight, strength, health and movement--spoken and unspoken. But here's what I want you to know. Here's what I want you to remember. Early on, it's all reduced to two broad categories: ABCs and 123s. Letters and Numbers.

When I was small, I wanted to be big. I wanted to be the right number to ride that ride. I wanted to be the right number to wear that dress. I wanted to be the same number as my Mom and my Dad because then I could do the things that they did each day that looked so fun and amazing. And as I grew, the letters emerged. Letters I could use to now recognize my name. And then write it myself. And to read the books that were on that shelf. And make the grades that made the grownups proud. And letters on a keyboard that played up and down the space of 81 black and ivory tones. Numbers and letters that scored "perfect" scores and won me competitions and filled the pages of over 100 compositions.

But something else took place as well. I began to notice numbers on the scale. Letters next to the word "vitamin" making some foods "good" and some foods "bad." Letters like XS, S, M, L, XL and numbers on labels that made clothes fit or not fit and thereby made me worthy or unworthy of wearing them. I stopped wanting to be big. I wanted to be small. And it's not something we talk about a lot as women (or men, for that matter) but here's a set of numbers I'd like you to see:

63
81
204

I am 63 inches or 5'3" tall. At this height I have ranged in weight between the following two numbers: 81lbs and 204lbs. In May of 2000 I weighed 81lbs due in part to a lifetime of yet to be diagnosed and adequately treated disordered sleep and also disordered eating. On the day I gave birth to my daughter 8 weeks ago, I weighed 204lbs. I have seen a lot of numbers between those two figures and my figure has seen a lot of shifts as well. Many professionals with good intentions and great educations offered help to me with my disordered eating and body image struggles, but it's a tricky little bird, and while it's no longer a full on war at this point in my life, it's a silent battle in the background for so many women and men alike. And many professionals with good intentions and great educations offered help for the symptoms I presented with that eventually led to the correct diagnosis of my sleep disorder, but the very same symptoms that led to this discovery at the age of 26 are also ones that pigeon hole patients into misdiagnosis and ineffective treatment each and every day.

At some point in my life, I became less interested in numbers and letters and more interested in what my body and brain could do, like obtaining a college degree, biking 18 miles to and from my internship, learning to love hiking, yoga and even running (without being chased). I've never won a trophy or run a marathon but I've enjoyed a variety of ways of being active at all letters and numbers. And do you want to know something else? The three most intense workouts I've ever done were at my heaviest weights. I took home three gorgeous little trophies after those workouts and they keep me active and inspired every day. Mr. Harrington, if you're still out there, I'd like to see you push out one of those bricks you're hauling around with no epidural and then you can tell me I'm weak.

So why do we go from this stage of wanting to be bigger and bigger to all of a sudden wanting to be so small we disappear? Why do I have to be practically invisible for you to see me? And the answer is, very simply (though more complex, I fear), I don't. A few weeks ago, S quite innocently asked me why my belly is still big if C is no longer inside? I answered him, quite innocently, that it took a long time for my belly to grow as she grew inside so that it could give her a cozy place to get ready for the world. And it could take a long time for it to shrink back down and maybe it never would, but that would be OK because my belly carried her and Y and S and that is pretty cool. And today, as we walked out of my gym where I did my first workout since the incredible one I had 8 weeks ago in the L&D unit, S quite innocently said "Mommy, you are going to get so strong, as strong as Tatty!" "I am trying to get strong," I answered, just as innocently, "but I might not be as strong as Tatty. We might be strong in different ways and that's OK. You can have strong arms or strong legs and carry heavy things. You can have strong fingers and write and draw. You can have strong lungs and play a saxophone or a strong nose like Gerald Elephant and sound like a trumpet." S holds strength and shape on the same playing field. Why can't the rest of us do the same?

There is so much pressure and promotion after birth to "bounce back" and while I am round and I bounce, I have no interest in bouncing back. I just want to bounce forward. I don't want to obsess over numbers or letters for any reason other than computing math problems, reading and writing. I have leopard spots and zebra stripes and hair in all kinds of places I never knew I'd find it after these three pregnancies. I also finally wear a grown up shoe size, so that's pretty cool. I have friends who are on serious diet programs, some of whom even coach others toward weight loss. I have friends who have undergone gastric bipass surgery. I have friends who run marathons and even participated in triathlons. I have friends for whom food is only fuel and friends who love to eat for the pleasure of it. I have friends who will tell you that it is both, who can only eat now through a feeding tube. I have friends who teach Yoga and Zumba, friends who eat vegan diets, kosher diets, Whole30 diets or half the buffet diets. Some will say "it's easy: calories in, calories out." Some will say "it's hard and always a struggle."

And I am somewhere in there cheering everyone on in whatever brings you joy and wellness. Your path may not be mine, but I'm glad our paths have crossed. I'm not at the gym because I want some number or letter of the past. I'm there because, um, endorphins are amazing and energy spent is energy gained and I have three busy little "trophies" in my house that I need a lot of bubbly energy for. Health and wellness come in lots of shapes and sizes. So does beauty. So does strength. It's not black and white for me; that's reserved for piano keys. Grey is a fabulous shade, too and lets not forget red and orange, purple, blue...
I have three very important reasons to be well, to feel well and to talk about wellness on a level that keeps them on the same trajectory. Both of my boys also have hypotonia. Both have had PT, both keep active at their own gym and are, thank G-d very healthy and growing! Their gym teachers are encouraging and supportive but that doesn't mean they're never going to meet a Mr. Harrington, and when they do, I want them to be able to intuit over the sound of his words that they are strong and they always will be. Strength is about far more than hauling bricks and eating stalks of broccoli. And in some ways, I'm grateful for that old man. I'm just about stubborn enough to know that his words that at the time paralyzed me with shame are the same ones that pushed me to prove him wrong. Also, I kind of love broccoli, so we do have that in common.

And with three little differently shaped and sized growing bodies in this house, I want our dialogue to be open. We can reserve the numbers and letters on labels for those labels themselves. Food can be fuel and enjoyment. Broccoli tastes good and is good for you but ice cream is not bad. I have a deep-seeded habit not to look in mirrors so I may have my shirt on backwards and totally not realize it. But I hang mirrors all over this house because there's nothing wrong with seeing yourself, it can be a wonderful thing. Just look at my kids spending hours cracking themselves up at their own funny faces or strawberry juice mustaches. Postpartum bodies are not out of shape; they're a new shape and who the heck ever said a line is a shape at all?! I'm pretty sure I was awake for that part of geometry...

To my sweet sons and dear darling daughter; I'm round, I bounce, but I won't bounce back. You will grow; you will be the right number for that ride before you know it! You will have all kinds of letters in your life, but don't stop at A--there's DR and PhD and MR and MRS and MOM and DAD and don't forget to LOL. Prizes are sometimes metals and trophies and other times they are stretch marks and chin hairs. Embrace both. Be big enough to own your space; you've earned it. Be small enough to let someone share it with you; it's more fun that way. Be strong enough to face the Mr. Harringtons of the world and kind enough to love yourself just as much when you do. Try to find something you both have in common; that will shrink him back down to human size because no one's negativity should be larger than life.

Abundance in life isn't found in the number on the scale or the letter on your clothing tag. Your worth is not defined by a numeric figure or even your figure. What defines you is what is in your heart and your dreams and your willingness and ability to persevere toward both. Run if you love to but you don't have to be first. You don't even have to finish. Sometimes it is a sprint; sometimes it's a marathon, sometimes you're going in circles--but even the least skilled bicyclist quickly discovers that you only fall when you stop moving altogether. So keep pedaling, keep stretching, jumping, throwing, catching, seeing and laughing. Bounce back from the hurts of the world but for everything else, bounce forward. Life's a ball and you've gotta roll with it!

Happy and Healthy Playing

Bonus Post: Outdoor Classrooms as an Inclusive and Accessible Space

I recently gave an interview with a fellow nature educator and the incredible mind behind the website Outdoor-Classrooms and over the course of the conversation got on the topic of nature-based classrooms as an inclusive and accessible space. I've put together a three part series here on building your own outdoor classroom, whether at home, in a school setting or even on the go. I've touched upon a variety of reasons I am so passionate about outdoor play--an area of childhood development that I feel has been hijacked by adults at best and completely neglected at worst. Those who know my professional background know that I also have a passion for inclusive and accessible classrooms and learning spaces.

My classroom teaching experience has provided me with a multitude of opportunities to see and facilitate inclusive classrooms in action. Teaching under the traditional inclusion model, I learned that my own personal ideal was not always ideal for the students in my care. I firmly believe that educational opportunities should be readily available to all children regardless of ability and/or disAbility. I also firmly believe that all classrooms function best when everyone in them is able to access these educational opportunities. In some settings, the "inclusion model" was functioning well to serve this purpose most of the time. In others, it was not.

Through these experiences, I also came to reframe my own concept of what inclusion looked like. Whereas my lens had previously been focused on integrating and eliminating visible lines between "typical" models and peers with "special needs," I came to feel strongly that a well functioning classroom community was not necessarily about making these boundaries disappear but rather recognizing the unique needs and the common needs of each individual in their environment. Meanwhile, I also noticed a common trend among all children: a significant decline in play skills. Teaching pro-social behavior through play was no longer something I did for children specifically on an educational plan, it was an area of deficit for nearly all my students.

And this extended to the playground. Whereas just about 5 years beforehand most of my students begged to go outdoors and were immediately and consistently engaged, now my students maybe still begged to go outdoors but were quickly disengaged, engaged only in repetitive play schemas (particularly scripted re-enactments of television shows or movies) or even asking to go inside and complaining of boredom. I attributed this play deficit to a lot of potential factors including (but not limited to) an increase in technology/screens, an increase in helicopter parenting and teaching, an increase in focus on "academics" earlier on and a correlating decrease in open ended toys and child led play opportunities. And when it came to the physical layout of classrooms and outdoor spaces, even the toy aisles in stores--things had changed as well. There were more and more single-function, brightly colored, noisy and battery operated materials that encouraged various developmental skills but not a whole lot of movement.

Areas intended for movement also changed. Outdoor nature spaces as well as indoor gross motor spaces were fit with colorful plastic playground equipment and while I certainly value swings, slides, ladders and monkey bars, they also serve only a limited set of functions. But one thing remained consistently true: given the same amount of time in an indoor gross motor space as an outdoor one, children outdoors eventually engaged in some sort of meaningful play activity whereas indoors, many would literally just run in repetitive circles. And cognitive, social and/or developmental differences that seemed blatantly visible inside of a classroom setting or even an indoor gym were almost invisible outdoors.

Here are a few anecdotal examples:

The Garden of Eatin':
In one of my first years as a lead teacher I taught in an inclusive Pre-K classroom with a high ratio of very aggressive and energetic boys. We had four adults to 12 children and many parts of most days still felt like a battle to merely survive. Indoors we had a divide and conquer mentality. Group times were all about location and proximity to key players. Teaching in a climate with a cold winter meant that we were often indoors for the duration of the day--a whopping 9 hours for some children. We had a gross motor room and even the addition of new (and expensive) play equipment didn't seem to change the amount of spinning, stimming, running in circles and disengagement of most or even all of my students on some occasions. These kids needed to be outside and I, being the teacher who got outside no matter what, was often the one who would gladly take them regardless of the elements. There was a lot of running involved and a lot of space; in related news, I lost 25lbs that year. The kids were all over the place, but they were all engaged in meaningful play activities even if it took a chunk of time (and physical space) for that to begin and looked different from child to child.
A teacher in another classroom had a garden she worked on with her students each year and one day, in the early spring, she invited my class to come work in her garden. I was honestly a little intimidated. This was her brain child and she was truly epic in her time--the hipster of outdoor teaching if ever there was one! The garden space was adequate, but small and I wondered what would happen when I released 12 very active students into this space, some of whom had probably never seen a garden up close before. Not a lot of the other teachers were running to volunteer to join us on our visit, so I entered those gates with my kids in trepidation. And an amazing thing happened out there. It became almost silent. The students were all crouched low, shovels in hands, pulling weeds, discovering worms and roley poleys and lettuce that had overwintered and returned. And you would never have been able to tell for even a moment "who was who." Students on the autism spectrum, students with medical needs, students with backgrounds of trauma and "typical peer models" all looked exactly the same working in the garden.

Line Up: In another classroom, I had a student who had various learning and processing difficulties. In the classroom, he struggled with impulse control particularly in instances when his ideas and emotions would precede his ability to verbalize them. For instance, he might not immediately think to use words to ask a friend to play but rather hit the boy he desired to play with. He thrived with verbal support, a calm environment and time and space to process. He had a strong need for organization and also for large body movement and heavy lifting. Inside, this may have been portrayed by disruptive behaviors at group times when a number on the calendar was upside down. He might struggle with the compulsive desire to move our classroom furniture (sometimes rather aggressively). He struggled within a small indoor space to move his physical body in ways that were not destructive to his peers' play or their physical bodies at times. And in his play, he loved to organize things and line them up.
Indoors, these tendencies stuck out like a sore thumb. Peers often talked about his behaviors or avoided him altogether at times. But outside, something incredible would happen. Every day, this boy would bypass the bikes, bypass the playground structure, bypass the shovels and pales and even the swings and head right for a collection of plastic chairs, tables, push toys, riding toys and other similar sized objects/equipment. He would begin to lift them, move them and line them up. For the longest time, teachers asked him to stop. They gave him other things to play with, had him sit out at times, you name it--anything to stop the repeated process. And one day, I asked why? Why did we need him to stop moving the furniture and equipment? And so one day, I asked the teachers not to disallow it, but rather to observe with me. And we noticed that as he lined up chairs and tables and other items, that other children were also joining in. Sometimes it was a train. Sometimes it was a plane. Sometimes it was a restaurant or an ice cream shop. Sometimes it was a tower or skyscraper. And maybe the intended "purpose" of a chair was not to be a building block, but why, in the safety of enough space and support, could it not be used as such?  Instead of being the kid who other children avoided or asked questions about, he was now the leader of a plethora of outdoor games and activities. His peers sought him and couldn't wait for the day's adventure.

Eye Contact and Nature Contact: In yet another year of teaching, I had a very small class with very close knit families. The students all had pretty long term relationships with one another and their families did as well. Even in this small group, there were unique personalities and learning differences. One student in particular had increasingly visible difficulties with focus, attention and certain social/play skills. As his peers grew to engage in joined schemas of symbolic play, he remained very literal in his play. A block was always a block, never a telephone. As his peers grew to naturally move through routine and repeated classroom and self care tasks, he struggled to remember to get up from his chair and move on to the next activity or how to organize and dress himself in outerwear. He was incredibly bright and soaked up information like a sponge, even if he was staring out the window tracking a ball being thrown back and forth during Circle Time.
Visual tracking is visual tracking, and he was also successful at tracking words on a page earlier on than most peers. He did, however, struggle with making eye contact and given the choice to play and engage with others or independently, always chose to remain alone and watch his peers at play. He would take out a Montessori work mat just like his peers. He would set up a toy, activity or learning material on it, just like his peers. But he would not actually use what was in front of him. A puzzle might remain in the box with the cover on the entire time if no adults intervened with support. Rather, he would watch his peers engaged in their activities. Sometimes, he would scoot closer to them. He never asked to join in an activity and even when prompted, still had no interest in joining. At almost 5 years old, he was still engaging only in parallel play, developmentally typical of children several years younger. More and more his peers noticed and spoke about some of his quirks. He compensated by acting silly or saying "I forgot" but indoors it became increasingly obvious that his focus, attention and gaze were different in many ways from his peers'.
He loved to go outside. In fact, he couldn't wait to get out there every day. Even so, he would always be the last one ready and needed continuous and consistent support to get his outerwear on and line up with his classmates. Many times, he also needed a quiet space to carry out these tasks so as not to be distracted by movement or noise in the classroom. In transit, his eyes were rarely on the space in front of him and he might wander off or bump into someone/something directly in front of him. On the playground, he did somewhat engage in play. He enjoyed climbing and even sometimes copied or mimicked play behaviors of his friends. They continued to invite him into their games and while he couldn't adapt a stick to be a magic wand, he could repeat Batman's line verbatim the first time he heard it. One day, it was rather rainy. Not necessarily a great day for our playground, but a perfect day for what I called a duck waddle. As we filed out of the front door and waddled down the sidewalk, quacking, I heard our little friend call "Stop! I see something!" He'd found a garden snail on the front step that none of the rest of us has even noticed. This little boy who struggled to focus, to tune in (or tune out) and even to make eye contact was the only one in the group who discovered the snail. His peers were enthralled and everyone spent the remainder of the walk honing in on the ground to see what we might discover along the way...

Playing in the field levels the playing field. When children (and adults for that matter) encounter nature, something phenomenal occurs. Our experience outdoors is so unique and so individual that there is an inherent shift of focus from "standards" and "norms" toward commonalities and a shared sense of wonder. Those who indoors might be more active may be more reflective outside. Those who are not as confident in organized athletics might be more confident exploring the boundaries of a rocky terrain or climbing a tree. I, for instance, was a child with low muscle tone who was quite prone to falling and not at all coordinated with a ball, a bat or even a jungle gym. I lacked the confidence to play most sports games and felt intense anxiety over the performance aspects of gym class. In my own backyard, I climbed a Japanese maple tree and stood on a plastic saucer trying to ski down the snow covered hill in the winter. I had little to no risk aversion in my own backyard when I could navigate when and how to try things but intense aversion to climbing any higher than the second rung of the monkey bar ladder on the playground.

Indeed, the children who may be more likely to "follow" indoors often emerge as leaders outdoors. Children with strong language skills, observational skills and interests in science thrive outdoors even while these may be less sought after traits on the basketball court or in the playroom. And when it comes to setting up an outdoor classroom versus an indoor one in a manner that is inclusive and accessible, the work is almost always already done for us by Mother Nature herself. Abundant in loose parts and opportunities for discovery and learning, very little needs to be added to an outdoor space. Physical accessibility is an area of challenge in many buildings and often less so outdoors where spaces are open and surfaces are varied. Additionally, gaps in ability to navigate the variety of terrains and surfaces are a shared experience by all based not just on whether or not a person has a "diagnosed disability," but rather also on age, experience, confidence level, interest, etc. Children can play "differently" and simultaneously and not be "different" in doing so. Everyone is having a novel experience outdoors. Everyone is discovering something for the first time. Everyone is working toward an independent goal and everyone can share in the wonder.
When we look at the benefits to health and well being of all children in open ended outdoor play, it really brings forth the question of why this is something we are limiting and eliminating in our education model. In a tireless effort to knock down walls and barriers, we are building more walls and more barriers. Our spaces for learning and discovery are getting smaller and smaller and smaller. A friend of mine who is very active in the world of advocacy for disAbility awareness and inclusion once said that being inclusive is not about treating everyone the same, but rather about treating everyone differently. It sounds odd, but when you reflect on it for a moment, it makes sense. Our education model and even our current models of inclusion are often about erasing those differences or attempting to make them "less visible." But what if instead of forcing a square peg into a round hole, we allowed a space for both? Outdoor classrooms and natural environments provide a space completely uninhibited by walls (or a roof for that matter). Pace, space and purpose are accessible to all and everyone can engage in happy playing!