school

12 Mar

All Day – All Year Montessori: A Living Community

by Michele Aspinall | Montessori Blog

I love Montessori. Not merely the materials and the way that they call to each child at different stages of development. I love Montessori as a way of living. I love the endless opportunities that a Montessori environment offers each child who enters it. I love the way that the small community that is created accepts every new child as if he was a long-lost family member reunited. I love that the “oldest” children in the environment not only teach the youngest; they mentor, nurture, adore, and protect them. So, why tack on a Before or After school Program at the beginning and end of a child’s school day? Is it truly to suit the child or is it simply easier for the adults to sustain? Throughout the years, I have become a bit of a crusader of All Day Montessori. I am an advocate of eliminating before and after school care in Montessori schools in order to encourage all of these wonderful things to continue to grow into something that resembles a living community: All Day and ideally All Year.

Every day for the last twenty years I have been fortunate enough to call two very special places “home”. I can say with confidence that the children who I share my professional space with today also see it as a home away from home. How can I be so sure? Well, if you were to ask me the same question within the first five years of this very unstable All Day, All Year program I would have likely cried and then said that I wasn’t sure of anything on any given day. If it weren’t for those first terribly unsettling years, I would not be able to say with confidence that children who stay at school for longer hours than a traditional school day, are best served in a Montessori classroom ALL DAY LONG. Their classroom. Their space. Isn’t that what we might call authentic Montessori?

There is a need for longer hours at school. There is no disputing that. Parents are workers and workers are parents, both out of necessity and preference. That’s in large part because many families in today’s economy rely on two incomes in order to pay the bills. The traditional primary class model is one that provides a school day from 8:30 am-3:00 pm. In order to meet the needs of parents and their demanding work schedules, many schools today offer before and after-school care. We (Countryside Montessori School) started, as many do, with a daycare set-up that was offered in the morning before the children went to their Montessori environments and then again after school when class ended. We offered 7:00 am drop- off, which included a light breakfast (cereal, toast, etc.). Also offered, was 12:00 pm lunch drop-in, which included lunch for children too young to stay for extended day. Finally, there was also an after-school option of 3:00 pm – 6:00 pm. This before/after care room could accommodate approximately 35 children at one time. It was available year-round, and only closed on major holidays. Parents could sign-up for any or all of those options – some even on a daily basis. It was named “Care Club”. When Care Club began almost 40 years ago, it contained no Montessori materials. The room was equipped with books, puzzles, blocks and traditional toys. I began directing Care Club when I joined the Countryside staff thirty years ago.

As many daycares can become, the program was essentially a revolving door for adults. The children could never really be sure of who was coming and going. Keeping ground rules consistent was unrealistic. Adults aside, the number of transitions in the children’s day was enough to make anyone feel muddled. Try to imagine every two to three hours being asked to pack up all your stuff and move to another room after you have finally settled in.

The day went a little bit like this for most children in Care Club: Having been pulled out of bed early in order to get to school on time, most days started badly for many children. After breakfast, they played with toys for a short time and then were asked to gather their belongings (again) and head to their Montessori class. After the morning class, all non-extended day children would come back to the day care room to have lunch and nap. After naps, the youngest children would play for a bit and at 3:00pm the extended day and elementary children enrolled in daycare would join us. The daycare room was located in the middle of the school so there would often be groups of children walking past the room to go home. For the daycare children, this was yet another reminder that they were different. Looking back, it is so clear why they weren’t interested in becoming connected to anything . . . they were simply waiting. Waiting for someone to tell them where to go next.

At the time, it seemed to make sense that the children needed “a break” in their day and the way to meet that need was to supply them with material that you’d find in their homes. Toys! As far as the toy selections in Care Club . . . well, they were endless. Subsequently, I felt that if I skimmed back and really focused on making good choices to place in the room, it would make a difference in the children’s behavior. I brought in toys and games that involved concentration and cooperation. However, it didn’t take long to figure out that it made little difference what kind of toy I put on the shelves . . . the children were equally abusive with each one. I’ll be honest with you, it didn’t feel right or even comfortable, but it was representative of how we often see children interact with each other in similar settings. Also, at this time I was not yet Montessori trained. It simply didn’t occur to me that it could be better.

There was something different about the day-care children, this was apparent. They were detached and uninspired with their daycare environment as well as their Montessori classrooms. In the daycare environment they bickered, damaged materials, they were careless and uninterested; in the classroom, they were only concerned with being with each other and waiting for Care Club to begin. What were the children trying to tell us? We continued to observe and explore, exhausting many possibilities along the way. We tried: adding more toys, limiting toys, adding service-oriented tasks for the All-Year elementary, and finally bringing in some practical life-type activities. After all of our best attempts failed, it was time to seek outside assistance. This day, I remember like no other. This is the day Carol Alver turned my world upside down . . . in a good way. I recall vividly when Carol and I sat down to talk about Care Club. I thought she would give me a few enlightening suggestions on how to make some minor tweaks to the program. This was not the case. In a nutshell, Carol said that it all had to go. The toys, the games, the “Day Care” environment had to go. She proposed that we create an All-Year Montessori environment with hours that would accommodate working parents, but most importantly provide the children with a place that they could call their own. I was rattled and fairly uncertain if I had a job the following day.

The school, however, was intrigued. We were not in the position to make the changes that were necessary to do it the right way. So I continued on, doing my best to offer the children an enriching Day Care environment. In the meantime, I also decided to embark on the AMI primary training. At the same time, our Head of School, Annette Kulle charged Wendy Calise, our Educational Director, with the responsibility of devising a daycare program that was pedagogically sound. She was specifically not to be influenced by the needs of parents; the realities of staffing; the space for such a program; the cost of such a program; or even whether we wanted to do such a program. While I kept myself busy with the training, Wendy was doing her own homework on how to make Carol’s idea work.

Two years later we took the plunge. These were the parameters that were devised for a new All-Year environment:

All children enrolled in AYM would be in one class. This would mean pulling the day care children from other primary classes and forming a new fourth class
The daycare hours would be shortened, taking a half an hour off each end of the day
There was no reason that children should not be in a Montessori environment all day long
Transitions needed to be limited
Three staff members for the All-year class were sufficient, one trained directress and two full-time assistants
In order for the All-Year Montessori teacher to not feel 2nd class – her number of days off would be the same as all other teachers in the school
The class size would be 30 – 35 children
AYM would need more space than a traditional class
The room would be designed so that no other children would need to pass through to go home
There would be a place (vestibule) for parents to wait when picking up their children
There would be a full kitchen
And finally, the program needed to be pedagogically sound

There was no doubt that these children were particularly sensitive to transition. Consequently, I made certain that there were few variations that occurred in their day. However, I really wanted to make their day seamless. Not an easy task with so many hours to consider. Also, there weren’t many successful models to follow. There seems to still remain many educators who feel that children need constant change to keep their interest. We had learned first hand in Care Club that it couldn’t be farther from the truth. So this is what I did . . . I observed. And then when I thought I had enough information, I observed some more. Through my observations, I had discovered countless shifts throughout the school day that were not only disruptive but robbed the children of the ownership that they needed in order to finally settle into THEIR class.

The All-Year class is almost 20 years old and in the best place it has ever been. Currently, the class consists of thirty-five children. We are open from 7:30 – 5:30m, 245 days a year. I continue to be the directress in the environment, and I have two assistant teachers. As previously mentioned, this place has become a home away from home for me and for hundreds of children over the years. As difficult as it was in the beginning to make the change, I can’t imagine working and living in any other environment.

When pondering the idea of Montessori all-day long it would be foolish to not reflect on the very first Children’s House. In 1906 Montessori worked with a group of sixty young children of working parents in the San Lorenzo district of Rome. It was there that she founded the first Casa, essentially what we now are calling All-Year Montessori. ‘There is a great sense of community within the Montessori classroom, where children of differing ages work together in an atmosphere of cooperation rather than competitiveness. There is respect for the environment and for the individuals within it, which comes through experience of freedom within the community.’ Dr. Maria Montessori (cited in Elizabeth Hainstock, 1986, p. 81 – The Essential Montessori). I am living in a community such as this every day. It allows the younger child to experience the daily incentive of older role models, who in turn flourish through the responsibility of leadership. This cycle is continuous, as those being mentored successively aspire to be the role model. Three to six-year-olds remaining in the same class ALL DAY innately eliminates all titles that the children naturally impose on each other. There are no morning children, extended day kids, or even “kindergarten” labels. They are all in it together . . . everyday. They are classmates. They are friends. They become a family. This environment also promotes the understanding that children not only learn ‘with’ each other but ‘from’ each other, minimizing the need for adult guidance and intervention. The peer teaching in an all year environment has limitless boundaries. The robust sense of community allows the children to become confident in their environment and in themselves, using the knowledge and skills they acquire to express their own ideas and creativity. It assists them in recognizing their value, to respect the creative process of others, and develop a willingness to share, regardless of the risks.

On any given morning, the delicious fragrances of cinnamon French toast, multi-grain waffles, banana pancakes or cheesy skillet scrambled eggs can be enjoyed throughout the halls of the school. As early as 7:30 am, parents escort children into a vestibule that leads into our AYM class. After good-byes are said at the entrance, the child walks independently into the classroom and the parent sets off to work. The child then tends to his belongings and walks into the kitchen area that is adjoining the class. At this time, he has the choice of either having the hot breakfast that is being prepared by his peers or beginning his day in the class. Once breakfast is made and all morning responsibilities have been fulfilled, the children sit to eat family-style. Some words of thanks for the bountiful meal are shared and then thirty-something children begin their feast. Conversation, laughter, and quiet reflection can all be observed during breakfast all year round. It is a perfect way to ease into a day.

As children finish up and breakfast comes to a close, there is more activity just beginning in the classroom. Children arriving after 8:00 am have already eaten breakfast at home and oftentimes are the ones preparing the class for readiness. In an All Day environment where we want the children to ultimately claim complete ownership, it is essential that they partake in the everyday class preparatory tasks that traditionally the adults are accustomed to completing. A variety of work can be observed in AYM anytime between 8:30 and 11:30; the traditional Montessori materials are in constant use as well as activities such as: baking snack for the class, tending to the garden, watercolor painting or cleaning an animal cage. By 10:30 am the children have already emptied the dishwasher twice. In addition, the laundry has been loaded, unloaded and folded for lunch preparation. In every corner of the room, real, purposeful activity can be observed. A living, working community.

Around 11:30 am a few children slowly begin to wash up and wander into the dining area once again to begin lunch set-up. At 11:45 there still may be a child finishing up a word with the moveable alphabet that he is anxious to get down on his rug before joining us for lunch. There is no hurry we have time. Preparation, eating, and clean up takes us close to an hour and a half. Mealtime is an opportunity for growth. Grace and Courtesy lessons have become as important to me as any other tangible material that can be found on the shelves of the classroom. These are life lessons. They are critical in order to maintain peace and harmony within a very extended day together.

After our second meal of the day, we retreat to our backyard. Most of the children in AYM are at school for ten hours a day. Outdoor play is a must, no matter what the weather brings. A few of the very youngest children who need an afternoon nap settle in shortly after some time outside. The oldest children are partnered up with the youngest to tuck them in, sing a song or rub their backs for comfort. When the others are ready to come in from outside, we gather for a few minutes to discuss the day or what’s to come in that particular week. We then begin our second three-hour work period of the day. This is commonly when I observe the most focused work, sometimes from the youngest in the class. It is not unusual to see a child completely engaged in his work at 5:00 pm. For the last hour, the All Year Elementary children typically go outside or to the gym for some large movement. A handful of the three to six year olds who need large movement join the elementary students. The primary children truly value their time with the elementary group. It is another wondrous occasion for peer teaching to take place on a different level.

I am still faced with some apprehension and a smidge of resistance when visiting schools who are considering an All Day model in replacement of their before and aftercare. The hesitance is typically coming from the staff, the teachers who will ultimately have to make the shift from a traditional school day. I get it. Change is hard. Most of us today live in places that lack community. Neighborhoods aren’t what they used to be. Parents and children aren’t home long enough to develop the kinds of relationships with their neighbors that we had long ago. That’s why it’s so crucial that we help to nurture and inspire the children who stay at school for longer hours to develop a community within our Montessori classrooms. Being involved in a community of friends is vital in the growth and development of our children. Community offers support, a sense of belonging, a strong sense of self and of connection. The children feel emotionally and physically safe and valued; they develop social abilities and have a sense of sharing and caring for each other. Let’s work together to continue to create and develop these All Day/All Year communities. Anything of real value is worth the struggle. The children certainly are.

26 Feb

Why Wait

by Jennifer Rogers | Montessori Blog

7 Comments

“Education cannot be effective unless it helps a child to open up himself to life.” -Maria Montessori, The Discovery of the Child

Anna

Many years ago, I had a student who was an unintentional and most unlikely source of great inspiration. Where Anna is now, I couldn’t say. I suppose she is in the midst of a successful college career. When I first knew her, she was three years old, smart and strong-willed, the cherished daughter of older Russian parents. For the first year I knew her, Anna was completely silent.

Though her mother reported she spoke “like a storybook” at home, in both English and Russian, at school she said nothing. Anna was attentive, cooperative, and seemingly quite happy. She attended small and large group lessons, listened politely, and nodded at appropriate moments. We often noticed her lips moving when we sang, but her singing was without voice.

We never understood why Anna did not speak. Though she looked content, we wondered if this first separation from the Russian grandparents who had cared for her since infancy might have been traumatic for Anna. Anna’s mother seemed attuned and honest. She was neither critical nor concerned. “It will pass,” she said. “She is fine.”

I continued to worry.

In January, I asked an old friend to observe Anna in my class. “Tell me what to do,” I begged him. He was older than I, much more experienced and confident, on the brink of retirement but still successful in all his endeavors. The morning he came to observe, he stayed in my classroom less than 15 minutes.

“You know what you are going to do?” he said. “Nothing!” He pointed his index finger at me to emphasize his certainty. “This is a beautiful classroom, full of active, happy kids. The environment you prepared is calling Anna. Eventually, she will answer.”

He pointed at me again, smiling. “You wait,” he said, and left.

A month later, three five-year-old girls stood near Anna, talking about a weekend trip to a local ice rink. “I like to skate,” Anna said.

Five-year-old Samantha turned to Anna, smiling. “Do you skate with your friends or with your family?” she asked. “I like to skate with my big sister,” Anna replied.

Samantha extended her little hand for Anna, and the two girls walked off together to continue their conversation in a small group. There was no fanfare, no celebration, just a quiet, long-awaited conversation among friends.

After that first timid conversation with friends, Anna spoke freely, with animation and intelligence. The next morning, when she arrived at the door of our classroom, she shook my hand as she always had, then smiled and said, for the first time, “Good morning Mrs. Rogers. It’s good to see you.” Over the next few days, she demonstrated that she had memorized and could reproduce all the Sandpaper Letter sounds. She began working with the Moveable Alphabet with obvious delight.

It felt like a miracle. It still does.

Amanda

More recently, a parent of one of the oldest children in my class came to the first conference of the year eager to tell me a story. She began describing the behavior of another student, our newest, tactfully avoiding his name. She related her daughter Amanda’s initial shock at the boy’s disorderly conduct and his most unfortunate word-choice. That boy blossomed into a fine member of our community, a good friend to many and an admired leader, but at the time of our first conferences that year, our situation was dire.

Panic rose within me as her stories drew to a close. The tales were true. There was no doubt in my mind whom she was talking about, but I was not sure how to reassure her or respond to her concerns.

As so often happened with this remarkable parent, I underestimated her.

“Here’s what I wanted to tell you,” she said. “I was upset when I listened to Amanda’s stories about this child. I asked Amanda if she had told you. You know what she said?” Here she paused, for dramatic effect.

“She said, ‘Oh mom. Why would I tell Mrs. Rogers? She already knows. It’s going to take a long time. But it will be OK. We can handle it.’”

Her eyes were full of tears. “Can you believe that? My five-year-old daughter is wiser and more patient than I am. I’ve never been so proud. Thank you. I am so grateful.”

Learning to Wait

A casual observer would miss much of the learning and growth the goes on in a Montessori classroom. Many of the experiences of greatest value to a growing child are not apparent they are so embedded in the routine that children and adults rarely notice their impact.

Montessori classrooms are unusually active, just two adults with a large group of children of mixed ages. With very few exceptions, classrooms are prepared with just one of each material available for use. These decisions – large communities of mixed ages of children, few adults and few materials – are deliberate choices intended to help children learn when and how to seek help, how to make independent decisions and, most importantly, how to wait.

Children in Montessori classroom are not expected to take turns or share. If a child is working with a material, she is free to work at her own pace, for as long as she desires. Other children who might like to work with the material are learning to wait. Additionally, when a child needs help, he might not have immediate access to the teacher or the assistant. When a teacher is giving a lesson, observing, or otherwise engaged, children can either seek help from another child, or wait.

Young children whose parents report regular tantrums and fits of rage at home demonstrate great patience in the school community. Why? At any given moment, in any well-prepared Montessori classroom, the same child who can be frighteningly impatient at home is surrounded by children who are actively waiting. Learning to wait is an unarticulated expectation. The prepared environment demands it.

Ideas for Parents

“These are the joys which prepare a man for life and are the only ones that are really suitable for the education of children.” -Maria Montessori, The Discovery of the Child

The world our children are growing up in is so mechanized, efficiency-oriented, and virtual — helping children learn to wait requires parents make deliberate, conscientious choices about how they spend time with their children. Most of the experiences and entertainment for children offer immediate, constant feedback and demand very little attention. Waiting is a soft skill, but it is also the precursor to the virtues of perseverance. The ability to actively wait is the cornerstone of success in any arena.

Some Ideas

Gardens: For many years, my husband planted moonflower seeds with our young children. There is nothing to compare with the just-before-bedtime delight when the first fragrant blossom opened outside our back door. I have also been the grateful recipient of flowers a child planted at home and picked before school. Vegetables in the ground . . .tomatoes in a barrel . . . geraniums in a can on the window sill. . .marigolds by the mailbox . . .every seed planted and cared for by a child is an opportunity to learn that growing things takes attention and time.
Cooking/baking: The only experience more valuable than sharing a meal with a child is first preparing it. Waiting for bread to rise, or cookies to bake, or soup to boil fills a home with good smells and good feelings. Most families cannot manage a sit-down meal as often as we would like, but every meal prepared together and shared at a table is a gift and an investment in the health of a child and her family. Really.
Road Trip: Infants and toddlers gain nothing from hours strapped in car seats and carriers. Older kids can, however, learn a great deal from trips with maps in their laps and a destination to explore. Too often, our children travel great distances so quickly and with such little thought or attention, they return home with no idea where they have been or how many miles they traveled.
Read Aloud: Often. One of the simplest, most valuable joys of childhood is listening to a story. Even when a story is often repeated, children love waiting to hear what happens next. There are now so many beautifully illustrated books for children, waiting for the page to turn is a real source of joy for kids whose parents make time to sit down beside a child with a book in hand. As children grow older and can listen attentively to chapter books, they also spend a full day anticipating the next night’s reading.

We Never Stop Learning to Wait

“Before anyone can assume a responsibility, he must be convinced that he is the master of his own actions and have confidence in himself.” -Maria Montessori, The Secret of Childhood

One of the first times I had a Montessori consultation, I was working in a classroom situated at the end of the hallway the children walked down as they entered the school. Eager to observe the morning greetings and, I suppose, to see the expressions of the children as they entered the school, our consultant began her day sitting in a chair just inside the door to my classroom.

That year I had a little boy in my class who was autistic. When he saw the smiling stranger seated within his classroom, he screamed in terror, turned and ran back down the hallway. Horrified, I made eye contact with my assistant and very quickly left the classroom, feeling certain the consultant must already be convinced I was incompetent and unworthy of my position.

My terrified young student stopped when he saw me and sat down to cry in the hallway. “It’s OK,” I said, “She is my friend.” Then I stood waiting, until he took my hand and joined me as we returned together to a classroom that was by now in full swing.

I spent the day dreading my after-school conference with the consultant.

“Well, Jennifer,” she said as we sat alone together in my classroom. “Wonderful.” Then she paused, smiling, allowing her encouragement to sink in.

“First, I love how you left your classroom in the care of your assistant to follow the child who needed you most. Your classroom functions well when you are not present. That is as it should be.”

“Second, I love how you waited for him. That is what he needed. We teachers often want to swoop in and fix things, acting out our own fear and anxiety. You gave him the time he needed to recover, and you allowed him to feel in control of his situation once again. Well done.”

The conversation continued. I had much to learn from the consultant. I still do. Each of her comments was so accurate and so gracefully communicated, the entire conversation still resonates. She reminded me that we never stop learning how to wait, but each pause is significant. Real growth, she said, continues only when we act with an intelligence informed by a long vision of an unfolding life.

Disclaimer for Parents: If a trusted teacher or doctor has suggested an evaluation or therapeutic intervention for a speech, language processing, or other developmental delay, waiting is not a good strategy. Early intervention saves lives. A “wait and see” approach rarely helps a struggling child.

04 Dec

A Death in the Community

by Donna Bryant Goertz | Montessori Blog

6 Comments

Speaking to Children about the Death of a Classmate’s Mother
(excerpt from “The Cycle of Life: From Birth to Death and Beyond”)

I have spent the past two days speaking to groups of children, four to six at a time, in various classrooms about their friend Esther’s mother Celeste, the Brownie leader, who is in Hospice care. A couple of parents have requested that I write about these conversations and share them with you. When I spoke with the children, we usually began with how very sick or hurt a person can be and how complete the recovery can be. Treatments and medications can help a person get well again. The children told stories about people they have known who were very sick or injured and how they have recovered.

We spoke of the people who get worse for a long time and finally get better after years of medication and treatment. The children shared stories. We spoke of the people who get worse and worse and no medication or treatment helps them. They continue getting worse and they don’t get better. The children told of people they’ve known who died.

We spoke of the mystery of life and death and how the two are one. There is no life without death. Just as we open our arms to life, we open our arms to death. The children speak of all the animals and people they know who have died. They speak of the little babies, children, teenagers, parents and grandparents. We talk about the usual order of things, the model we expect—that animals and people die when they are very old and ready to die. We grieve and we miss them, but it is an expected and accepted grieving and missing.

We spoke of the babies, children, teenagers and parents who die — how few of them die and how unexpected and unacceptable we feel it is. We emphasized how unusual it is for a mom or dad to die before the children are grown up. I tell the children that a child’s worst fear is often that their parents will die, but that actually their parents will probably live to be eighty years old. Very old people who are sick and feeble may come to long for death. Those who love them may welcome their death as a kind relief. I emphasize that it is unusual for parents to die before their children are grown up.

The children talk about sickness, accidents and diseases. I follow their lead and straighten out their misinformation. I repeat how wondrous, strange and beautiful, how sorrowful and lovely, and how heartbreaking and joyous life is. The children spoke of their ideas of what comes after death. We spoke of Heaven and the angels, of the Good Earth and giving our bodies back to it. We spoke of returning to Live Again and of Life Everlasting and of Becoming All with Nature, both body and spirit.

The children all had their own ideas and ways of thinking and feeling about sickness and death. We brought up many different religions and spiritual paths. We spoke of God, the Life Force and Nature. One little boy waited until the other four children in the group had left. Then, he told me had no religion. I smiled a big, broad smile at him and said a big Ahaa! He looked at me harder, with large and earnest eyes, and said, really, his family had no religion. I told him that in that case, it meant that “all of life” was his religion. He smiled and smiled. He said Yes! I told him he would love all of life and be kind and loving to all of life—that he would be the best person he could be because he loved life so much. That would be his religion.

Children spoke of seeing a grandparent in bed at night and then finding his bed empty in the morning, because he had died and his body had been taken away. Such a mystery! They spoke of burials and cremations. We spoke of joy and sorrow, sickness and health, and accidents and recoveries. And death. We spoke of how long and hard grief can be and how we take joy right in the middle of it. Sometimes we have to open our hearts wider even when we hurt to let a bit of joy come in to the sorrow. We spoke of how sorrow goes away, but not altogether, and how it comes back suddenly. We spoke of how we call joy back, take it in and fill ourselves up with it.

We spoke of how hard it is to see a person becoming weak and thin. Watching a healthy body change can be upsetting to us. A couple of years ago, some of our families and children experienced a father dying over a three-month period. They said it was hard to watch him change so that they could no longer see in his body the person they had known. And it was hard when he could no longer recognize them and began calling them by other names. A child described how it haunted her for a long time.

The girls in the Brownie troop remember how recently they met at Esther’s house and her mother Celeste, their Brownie leader, had made delicious treats for them to eat and prepared interesting activities for them to do. In their practical and life-affirming way, the children were immediately concerned about who will be their Brownie leader.

One girl spoke of how strange it will be to go to Esther’s house and not see her mother. How can that be possible? Life and death are unfathomable mysteries. The children asked if they would ever see Celeste again. They were sad to think they might never see her again. We all agreed that within themselves, they carry a part of her spirit and some believe that they will see her in Heaven and she will be a part of all of Life and her body will be part of the Earth. We will all remember her and speak of her. The children can tell of good times they had with her. The children can make cards. Maybe the children can attend her memorial.

One girl said it is mostly the mother who cares for you and feeds you and listens when you are upset. How can a child grow up without her mother, she wondered? The children said over and over with fear and anger, this is not fair, not fair, not fair. They said it is okay for a sick and suffering person to die but not fair for a child not to have her mother. We search our souls for that fierce and passionate strength that we wish we never needed to find. And we find it. And we grow wiser than we ever wished we would.

But Esther has had such a loving and joyful mother for so long that she is strong and full of joy herself. She will be able to suffer the loss of her mother’s presence on earth yet keep her mother’s loving presence within her. It will be very hard but Esther will be fine.

Each person has a different way of grieving and we commit to respecting each person’s way. Your children will probably want to talk about this with you, their friends and their teachers; and they should feel free to do so. At the same time, it is important that each child respect Esther’s way of dealing with her grief and to follow her lead when discussing it with or near her. Handmade cards are a good way for children to express their sorrow and share their love for Esther while respecting Esther’s right to privacy with her grief. Here at school Esther chooses to say her mother is getting better. After her mother’s death, we will watch and wait to follow Esther’s lead.

Esther has many close friends whose mothers and fathers have helped out with rides to school and outings. These mothers and fathers are ready to do whatever is needed to help Esther and her father. Esther has spent her days at school and after in the company of friends doing fun things.

Celeste’s dream was to move to a house close to school before she died. Her husband and family are working to make that dream come true. Perhaps they will be moving by the end of this month. Esther’s father, Jon, will keep Esther in school next year so she can be close to her friends and their parents.

We knew you would want to know what’s going on and how we are speaking to the children about this so you can support them.

With sorrow and affection, and looking toward joy,

And so, as in all things, the School Culture is pervasive, cohesive, and integrated in philosophy and practice.

24 Oct

Montessori’s Aeroplane

by Jennifer Rogers | Montessori Blog

4 Comments

Passage to Abstraction

“There is nothing in the intellect which was not first in the senses.” -Aristotle

When our oldest son was six years old, he arrived home from school one day in an unusually chatty mood. “Mom,” he said. “Did I tell you I can do division abstractly now? You know, in my head?”

You had not mentioned it, I said. I was certainly glad to know.

Sitting down on a kitchen stool, he folded his hands in his lap. “Give me an equation,” he said. “Division.”

I started with nine divided by three. “Oh Mom,” he said, “At least give me a number with thousands, or maybe a remainder.”

Almost ten years have passed. The equations I suggested are lost to memory, and irrelevant to the story. He could indeed complete division problems in his head, without the aid of a calculator or any of the materials he had been using at school. He was neither proud nor humble, just a little boy who loved math and wanted to share something about his day at school. He was, above all else, deeply satisfied.

Our oldest is not a genius, but he is smart and has always been a good student. He has never been one to talk about the details of his school day, never what he learned at school. We gather our information about his learning by listening and observing. This particular conversation was memorable not only because it was so unusual for him to share, but especially because he was so conscious and articulate about a transition in his learning that was completely intangible.

He knew that he had accomplished something the rest of the world could not see, and the knowledge made him happy.

All children in Montessori classrooms absorb mathematical concepts in a pattern that is both intelligent and fun. We expected as much for our children. Until that moment, I did not know a young child could be so conscious, articulate, and nonchalant about the process Maria Montessori called the “passage to abstraction.”

Similar stories have unfolded in our kitchen several times since then. Our middle son told us one Saturday morning that he had learned to count in binary, on his fingers. His demonstration left me flummoxed.

“Oh mom,” he said, “It’s just for fun. Here, I’ll write it down so you can understand.”

Just a few days ago, our nine-year-old daughter told us she was working with prime factorization at school, and could already do a lot in her head. Like her older brothers, math fascinates and excites her. Unlike her brothers, she is eager and willing to talk about details. She recited, and then drew a diagram of the factorization process she pictured in her head.

Talking like a teacher, she suggested we try factoring another number together, showing us how to draw the familiar descending diagram on paper. It was important to her that we see together, and understand the process in her mind.

Materialized Abstractions
Maria Montessori introduced mathematical concepts to the children in her classrooms through the use of concrete materials. She insisted that children be given as much time and opportunity as they needed to work with concrete materials, until they had absorbed the concepts that the materials were designed to represent. Children work with their hands until the mathematical concept or process was absolutely clear.

Montessori called these lessons “materialized abstractions,” a highfalutin phrase for the common-sense observation that human beings learn best through the use of their senses. Children especially build their intellects most effectively through the combined use of their hands, eyes, and ears.

The Golden Beads are the heart of the Montessori primary math curriculum. Children in primary Montessori classrooms work with Golden Beads as they continue to learn about the decimal system. The differences in weight and dimension between a unit, ten, hundred, and thousand are obvious, because the children carry the materials in their hands and on trays as they learn. As they count, they also touch, look, and hold. When they complete their first addition problems, they can clearly see that when several small numbers are combined, the final quantity is larger.

As Montessori children progress through the math curriculum, the materials become increasingly abstract. The difference in weight and dimension of the Golden Beads is replaced by a difference in color, then by materials that require students move their fingers in simple patterns to find answers to addition, subtraction, multiplication and division equations.

When a child in a Montessori School masters a mathematical concept, he will often continue working uninterrupted, setting aside the learning material that had been an aid to development. The shift is barely noticeable, but hugely significant. For the child, a fundamental mathematical concept exists within him. He can complete mathematical operations with the same ease he demonstrates as he ties his shoes, or buttons his shirt, or prepares his table for lunch.

The Story Rug
Observing in my own primary classroom a year ago, I overheard a conversation between children that at first confused me, but still delights me. Three five-year olds were working with Golden Beads independently. Their work had just begun. One of the boys reminded his friend to get the story rug.

“I’ve already got it out. It’s right here,” his friend said, pointing to the empty rug at his feet.

Although it was my classroom, I did not know what a “story rug” was. As I watched, I understood that the children were referring to the place where they would organize their final equation. The story rug is the spot where they would discover an answer to their equation and read it aloud together. For these children, mathematical operations were tangible and, most remarkably, stories to be enjoyed with friends.

Montessori’s Aeroplane
In Maria Montessori: Her Life and Work, biographer E.M. Standing writes that Montessori compared a child’s passage to abstraction to the flight of an airplane. Technology has changed flight it several ways, but the metaphor endures. Children do need a long running start, firmly connected to the earth, and increasing in speed as their knowledge and understanding grows. Children do still launch into abstraction with apparent ease, but only after they have independently achieved the speed and strength they need to fly.

21 Jul

A Gift from the Children

by Julia Clark | Montessori Blog

2 Comments

Lessons of Kindness and Compassion in the Montessori Elementary Community

The school day starts with free play outside. We walk inside and I distractedly set down my things and prepare to guide the children through our daily mindfulness practice. A child comes over to me and I actively ignore him, trying to tend to the day’s little details before I recenter and connect with the children at the rug. He’s persistent, though, and finally gets my attention. “Ms. Clark, can I ask you something?” I’m pressed and short and say without looking at him, “Sure. Go for it.” He asks, “Can I sit separately from the community today during meditation? It’s just that a lot of people make me feel silly and I want to try to focus today.” I’m smiling on the inside, thinking, “he’s practicing mindfulness right now!” I turn to face him and try to stay pretty neutral. I reply, “Of course. Sounds like the right idea for today. Join us at the rug if you change your mind.”

Next on the docket, I accompany four children on a Going Out museum visit. They planned the trip themselves, as they’ve been prepared to do. I am the [mostly] quiet and supportive chaperone. One group, studying early humans, spends about 45 minutes taking notes while the youngest child in the group waits for her turn to visit the rocks and minerals exhibit upstairs. We break for lunch and I receive a message saying we have to get back to school earlier than expected. I share the disappointing news with the group, “we will have to plan another visit to see the rocks and minerals.” One of the boys who had the chance to finish taking his notes says with enthusiasm, “Next time we visit, we should let Sophia see the rocks and minerals first, since she didn’t get to take her notes.” Everyone takes the news in stride, accepting the disappointment while showing steely resolve to plan another trip next week.

Upon return to school, we meet up with the rest of the community on the playground for recess, and a spirited game of flag football is underway. One child yells, “PENALTY!” to another player who throws the ball too early (as far as my novice eyes can tell). Another child chimes in with a calm and friendly tone, “Come on, he’s just a learner. Let him take another try.” Everyone agrees. Game goes on.

Across the playground, a soccer game is underway and one child goes crashing down. Another player notices and yells to the others, “Guys! See if he’s hurt. If he’s hurt, you take a knee.” The group immediately falls to their knees. The fallen child takes a moment to himself and then stands up. Everyone else stands, saying nothing, and the game goes on.

Then, two children sprint over with fresh bunches of carrots from the garden, screaming with glee: “HARVEST TIME!” They plan to share the fresh food with our class guinea pig (and yes, this is a literal guinea pig, not the metaphorical kind of guinea pig that serves as a beta tester, as my sister thought when she first read this story, although we have those too!).

No community is perfect. Not every day feels this way. But today, from where I sit, the example of the children rises above the noisy internet full of persistently polarizing politics, and I remember why I wanted to do this work of peace education. These children, right now, have something we all need. How beautiful to observe the flowering of the qualities we take time to nurture in our community, how right it is to support the development of the whole child, not only tending to matters of the intellect, but also, the heart.

Julia Clark graduated from the University of Maryland with a degree in English Language and Literature in 2008. She received her AMI Montessori Elementary diploma from Washington Montessori Institute and her M.Ed. from Loyola University. She currently guides a community of thirty-three six-to-twelve year olds at Full Circle Montessori School in Arlington, Virginia.

03 Apr

Today is Saturday

by Donna Bryant Goertz & Sveta Pais | Montessori Blog

4 Comments

It is still dark when four-year-old Sam is up at a little after six in the morning. He rubs his eyes and sits up in bed, a mattress on the floor he has slept in since he was an infant. Sam’s parents chose this for him instead of a crib so that when he awoke he had the freedom to move as he wished. The entire room was prepared to be safe, like a crib, with just a few things made available on a low shelf. Once, Gwen, the parent-infant educator at Sam’s Montessori school visited, and Sam had proudly shown her his room. Gwen said, “Oh, I see you have a floor bed!” but Sam just calls it “bed.”

Sam hears his sister, Hannah, get out of bed in the room next door. Hannah is nine. “Today is Saturday, Sam,” she says, knowing intuitively that her younger sibling is awake. On weekdays, Mom and Dad set an alarm to wake up before the children, but on the weekend they like to sleep in a little late. “Let’s go check,” says Sam. The children meet in the passageway outside their room, and a ceiling light activated by motion flickers on. The motion-sensor switch was Mom’s idea so the children can be independent if they need the bathroom at night. On rainy days, when the house is dark, it also serves as a fun game to see how still you can be before triggering it.

After using the bathroom, the children check Mom and Dad’s bedroom door. It has a sign that says, “It’s the weekend! Have some breakfast before driving your old parents around the bend!” Hannah reads the sign to Sam and the children giggle. They are sure Dad made that sign because he always makes humorous signs for them. Even Sam, who cannot yet read, gets funny notes and reminders, always written carefully in cursive.

The children help themselves to bowls and cups that are conveniently located on the second-to-lowest pantry shelf. Mom has recently moved them there from the lowest shelf now that Sam is taller. “Sam has had a growth spurt,” she informed the family when showing them the new set-up. “Now he can reach the higher shelf and it makes it easier for the rest of us to access the things we need. Look! The lowest shelf now has the bin for recycling.”

Hannah fetches the whole-grain cereal and pours the milk. There are two scoops in the container for cereal: the larger scoop is blue and is marked “H” and the smaller scoop is pink and marked “S.” The children serve themselves, remembering that Mom and Dad encourage them to prepare one portion first, then a second only if they are still hungry. If Sam wants more milk later, he can help himself to the small pitcher of milk on the lowest shelf of the refrigerator. As the children eat, they watch the sunrise and the birds visiting the bird feeder just outside the dining room window.

After breakfast, Hannah gets out her special set of 72 Prismacolor pencils and a large sheet of paper to illustrate a map of a civilization she has been researching at school. Using a sturdy wooden stool kept in the kitchen for this purpose, Sam places his bowl and cup in the sink. He thinks of the rhyme Dad made up for him to remember what happens next. Oh yes, “Toilet, breakfast, and teeth…” the song goes. Sam brushes his teeth and gets dressed. Mom always makes sure he has access to three of everything he needs to choose from: underwear, pants, shirts and socks, so getting dressed is easy.

Meanwhile, Hannah is already engrossed in her map, which is rapidly getting bigger and more detailed. After knocking on their door, and being invited into Mom and Dad’s room, Sam snuggles in their bed with them. For the next three hours, Sam works with Mom or Dad to unload the dishwasher, weed the vegetable garden, and fold laundry. He also gets in a bike ride around the block with Dad.

It is almost eleven-o’clock when Hannah emerges from her work, which now covers a large part of the living room floor. She has joined several large pieces of paper together with washi tape. “I’m starving,” she announces. Mom smiles and points to Hannah’s breakfast bowl and cup, still on the dining table. Hannah knows that Mom is a lot more flexible on weekends and says that some days are for being creative in your pajamas. After Hannah has cleared her breakfast things away, Mom asks, “What’s next?” Hannah runs off to get dressed and returns to select a pear from the bowl of fruit on the kitchen island. She gets out a cutting board and a sharp paring knife. Sam watches her cut it. “If you cut the pear in half, will you get two quarters?” he asks. “No,” replies Hannah, “I will get two halves. When I cut each of those in half, I will get four quarters. One whole pear makes two halves or four quarters.” Sam is not sure he understands, but nods anyway.

A little later, everyone is getting ready to hike through the greenbelt to the neighborhood park for the afternoon. Dad and Sam work together to make sandwiches and hull strawberries for a picnic lunch. Mom retrieves the stale bread she’s saved in the freezer to feed the ducks. Hannah fills water bottles and packs the picnic blanket. It takes a while to get everything ready, and then Dad remembers the most important thing: the frisbee!

After an afternoon of hiking, playing, and exploring, Mom, Dad, Hannah, and Sam are home. Everyone is exhausted. Sam and Dad relax with a book, while Mom makes hot chocolate for the family as a special weekend treat. Hannah enters the kitchen fuming. “Sam has invaded my Prismacolor pencils,” she says. “I know because the greens and blues are mixed up!” Mom hugs Hannah. She acknowledges how angry Hannah is and how frustrating it can be to have a younger sibling to contend with. When she is feeling better, Mom reminds Hannah of the house rule that anything within Sam’s reach is available to him. “But I did put them away on my art shelf!” Hannah insists. Mom realizes that Sam’s recent growth spurt has enabled him to reach some items that belong exclusively to Hannah. Mom and Hannah plan a time after church the next morning to discuss how to solve the issue of Sam’s evolving height and how to reorganize her belongings to protect them from “invasion.” Mom thinks to herself that Sam is developing impulse control because he has looked through Hannah’s pencils, but not used them.

When everyone has finished their hot chocolate, Dad checks in with Mom and explains to Hannah and Sam that he needs to excuse himself to the study to work at his computer. The children groan. Dad is a computer engineer but never uses a computer in front of the children. Hannah knows that her parents try very hard to keep their life filled with real-life experiences instead of screens, and minimize their use of electronic devices in front of her and Sam. While Dad works and Mom cooks dinner, Hannah explains to Sam the various parts of the civilization map she has illustrated. Sam repeats some of the big words Hannah uses. Even though he does not know what they mean, he loves to practice saying words and hearing how they sound coming from his mouth.

After an hour, Dad is done working. Soon after, Mom finishes cooking and Hannah rolls up her large illustration. Sam sets the table. As Dad, Mom, Hannah and Sam sit down to dinner, the sun is setting and they chew slowly, watching the birds on the bird feeder. Mom tells the story of how earlier in the day the ducks gobbled up the stale bread the children had tossed to them from the pond’s bank.

Weekends are the best part of the week because everyone is home.

04 Oct

Red Lights and Glowing Screens

by Sveta Pais | Montessori Blog

9 Comments

Each weekday, I pick my three-year-old daughter, the younger of my two children, up from her Montessori Children’s House community at noon. Our commute home can range from five to fifteen minutes in duration, because of five sets of traffic lights. On the days when every traffic light turns red, the journey can be less than smooth sailing. “Drive, mama, DRIVE,” she begs as I come to a halt. I look back at her tired eyes, and there’s nothing I want more than to keep moving. With empathy and firm-ness I respond, “You don’t want mama to stop the car. You really, really wish I could drive so we could be home quickly. But the light is red and it means stop, and I will drive when it turns green.”

picture of children playing — ©MariaMontessori.com

One of the key components of parent-child relationships is encounters such as this one at red lights. There are negotiations which are relatively easy to endure because of the known harmful effects of what my child is demanding, like when that tiny voice gravely pleas for a sip of the wine I am drinking. In those instances, I can calmly acknowledge my daughter’s point of view and let her experience disappointment. “I hear you,” I say, “You want what I am drinking and the wine is not available. Would you like water or milk with your dinner?” Other negotiations are not that simple, because of my own ambiguity or the fact that I’m treading in uncharted waters. I have wondered, for example, how bad it could be if I give my child an iPad so I can get a few things done? Maybe even distract her from all those red lights. After all, it’s pretty much the norm these days.

As my husband and I reflect on almost a decade of parenthood, the most challenging area of boundary setting we’ve had to navigate is our children’s access and exposure to media. Imagine what it is like for us in a restaurant waiting for our meal to arrive, surrounded by other families all of whom have children sitting still, eyes glazed with the eerie glow of the electronic screen in front of them, while we pull out crayons and offer a game of “I Spy.” Who would have thought, even a few years ago, that such a scene of crayons and “I Spy” would be the oddity?

Let me backtrack a little by stating that a screen-free childhood for our offspring was never one we set out to achieve when we began our parenting journey. While pregnant for the first time, I accepted a collection of “Baby Einstein” DVDs from a friend without giving it a second thought. After all, they were “educational,” right? (Research-based answer: Wrong).

The table began to turn when we started attending Prospective Parent classes at a local Montessori school. These were the days before smartphones and tablet computers, and the school put out a very strong advisory against children (aged 12 and under, but particularly below age six) viewing television, playing video games, and using computers. Most of the advice offered was based on the vast experience and anecdotal evidence of the school’s founder, Donna Bryant Goertz. In the late 2000s, there was relatively little scientific research available on the long-term effects of children’s screen usage. We were struck by Donna’s notion of childhood experienced in a way that supported the self-development and self-education of the child, both at school and at home. While Donna never derided a parent for not living up to the ideal she prescribed, on one point she was unrelenting: screens had no part in the life of a Montessori child either in the classroom or at home.

Fast forward a decade and studies on the effects of screen usage in children are slowly but surely unfolding. For the past year I have been closely following “Parenting For A Digital Future,” a three-year research project at my alma mater, the London School of Economics and Political Science, which has been exploring prevalent attitudes and advice to parents in relation to children and screen time and questioning its relevance in today’s world. And I have never seen a more conclusive or compelling compilation of scientific evidence on screen usage as that presented in Dr. Nicholas Kardaras’ book, “Glow Kids: How Screen Addiction Is Hijacking Our Kids – and How to Break the Trance.” These studies are an affirmation that by making the choice to eliminate, as much as possible, our children’s screen exposure, for as long as possible, my husband and I have given them the best opportunity possible for optimal brain and socio-emotional development.

So, how do we navigate those “red light” conversations with our children when it comes to the topic of screens? The answer again goes back to Donna Bryant Goertz who challenged us as very young parents to consider what we valued most, and the kind of culture we wanted to evolve for our family life. The family life we currently enjoy is one that revolves around the richness of real-life experiences. Congruent to having all media turned off while our children are awake is a carefully prepared home environment which supports their independence, and parents who work hard to be consistent with each other. “Why don’t we watch TV in our house?” my older daughter asked when she was four years old. “Every family is different,” I responded, “It’s not that television is bad. In our family we just prefer to do other things which your dad and I believe help grow your brain.”

Interestingly, since that occasion, the conversation has not arisen. Children identify their parents’ lack of decisiveness by a mile, and these are the areas in which they test boundaries the most. Once my husband and I made a commitment to minimizing electronic screen usage in our home (and this includes our own), there was no going back.

This past summer our family went on a road trip. When we arrived at our destination, the children ran into the condo, our abode for a week. I watched as they explored each corner, curious to see what they would make of the three giant television screens. After a while, one of the screens caught their eyes but the girls dismissed it as their attention settled on the two remote controls below it. The rest of the week they spent using the remote controls as pretend phones. What could have been a passive activity in front of a glowing screen made way for some very creative and engaging conversations with imaginary people!

The thing about traffic lights is that red always gives way to green. Next summer, my husband and I plan on taking our daughter (who will be almost 10 years old) to a movie theater for her first movie. What a thrilling experience that will be! Someday there will be the age-appropriate need for a cell phone when I hand her car keys. There will even be the time when the tiny girl who implored a sip of wine at the age of three and I will both be adults enjoying a glass together. Life will most certainly unfold, but for the present time, I am determined that my children will not join the ranks of what Dr. Kardaras terms “glow kids.” I am willing to wager that that would not be my children’s preference either; they are having much too good a time experiencing their childhood as, well, just plain kids.