I hope he doesn't remember this, but the first time I met Teacher Tom, I was a bumbling idiot.
Now, here's why it's particularly embarrassing. You see, because my mom was in the entertainment industry while I was growing up, I had exposure to more than my fair share of celebrities.
Then, as an adult, I just kept running into them. For instance (and to my surprise), Steven Tyler once approached me and asked if he looked alright; he'd had only a quick cold shower and had to hurry, and was feeling self-conscious. I responded to him and we spent 45 minutes having a one-on-one conversation before he introduced me to the rest of Aerosmith. (He's a super nice guy, for what it's worth. I felt awkward ending the conversation, as if I should invite him to lunch or something.) I hadn't been looking for him or any of the other famous people I've stumbled across; it's one of those funny things that has just kind of happened with some degree of regularity throughout my life. It's always been my opinion that they're just people, so why get so worked up about them?
My life continued as it had, and one day while walking down the street with my daughter near downtown Seattle, Washington, I looked up to see a playground adjacent to an old church. On it, kids were playing. The teacher was the one who caught my eye, though---and he looked familiar. I racked my brain for a moment and realized it was, indeed, Teacher Tom (otherwise known as Tom Hobson) of Woodland Park Cooperative School. Known worldwide in the respectful parenting community (and beyond), he's hailed by parenting experts as one of the “world’s leading practitioners of ‘democratic play-based’ education." He's also a heck of a good writer. I'd recognized him from his blog about early childhood education (and other related topics).
I didn't know he'd be right there. And for the first time in my life, I completely geeked out in front of someone---and that someone wasn't a rock star or movie star, but rather, a preschool teacher. My subconscious enthusiasm did all sorts of unconscionable things: I stuttered, used the wrong word more than once, and despite my efforts, just couldn't seem to "pull up" conversationally. I guess I'm a sucker for intelligent people who do important work on behalf of children.
He engaged my introverted daughter as best he could and invited us to join his class sometime. We accepted his invitation. I enrolled my child for the following summer and the school year thereafter.
By spending a year working in his classroom every week, I got to know him much better than I did when I first wrote about him. I'll stand behind what I wrote then---he's still simultaneously on the kids' level while also being a strong and respectable leader. He's intriguing. Even my husband can't quite put his finger on it. He agrees, "There's just something special about him."
Beyond what he does to entertain the kids, he also really engages with them.
Unlike many of us, who are often inclined to multitask or think about the "next responsible thing we need to do" while playing, he really gives the kids his undivided attention. He's all in. What I observe in their response is that they feel important in his presence (because they are). There's a critical parenting lesson in that.
You won't find a single worksheet anywhere in his classroom (other than, perhaps, as scrap paper). The most formal instruction I ever heard him offer to the class was, "Here's something you need to know in life: no one wants you to mess with their glasses, their hat, or their hair. Nobody likes that." (He's right.)
Within the context of the inevitable and occasional conflict that comes up amongst the children, he helps them navigate their challenges peacefully. With him, it's safe to talk about feelings; in fact, he spends a fair amount of time talking about them. He reads about them. I'd surmise that every kid in his class graduates with a better understanding of humanity than many adults have.
I'd be surprised if the adults who spend time with him don't come away as better parents and partners than they were before observing him with the kids.
Today, our last day, the kids put on an end-of-year play as part of their "graduation" ceremony. While Teacher Tom was coaching them beforehand---and before the audience entered the room---he advised the kids that sometimes, unplanned things happen during performances. People drop their props and whatnot. If one of those unforeseen things were to happen, he advised them to keep performing, citing the old cliché---"the show must go on."
They performed. Most things went according to plan and the play went beautifully. Families celebrated, and then the kids crossed the stage one at a time to symbolize their leaving Teacher Tom's class to move on to new endeavors.
My guess is that we all walked away feeling somehow changed, likely for the better, for his presence in our lives.
I didn't mean to meet Teacher Tom any more than I'd planned to hang out with Aerosmith. One of those encounters was fairly cool (much cooler than I've ever been, for sure); the other, made a difference.
There's a hole in our hearts tonight after finishing our time with Teacher Tom. And yet, that hole is full of a lot of teaching that I'll still be processing, and trying to implement as a parent, for quite some time.
I'd sincerely like to thank him for the work he does. Not only do I want to thank him for what he writes to keep the rest of us in check every day (although I don't think that's his goal); I also want to thank him for opening his heart to these kids.
He loves them. And every single one of them feels it.
And now, we move onward---better than we were before we met him, because, as he said, the show must go on.
Although I was on the other side of the playground when it started, I suspect the conversation began something like this: "Hey, let's see if you can throw the football so hard that it gets stuck in the tree!" Perhaps having never experienced the frustration of getting a ball stuck up high, this young boy saw an opportunity to try something new.
Most of us have wished for the lost moments of our life back when we were working to retrieve an irretrievable item. As a result, most of us have made an unwritten rule that we should never throw something up there intentionally.
But not this boy.
Fortunately, his muse (who happens to be his teacher) is often game for challenging long-held beliefs--especially the ones that adults have imposed on kids, often without good reason. Rules for rules' sake, you know. "The way we've always done things."
By the time I arrived, they were drawing a crowd. We watched our impromptu quarterback throw the ball upwards toward the high branches. It's amazing how hard it is to get a ball to stick in a tree the one time you want it to stay there!
With some effort, but not too much, he threw the ball high enough. And it stuck, way up there. Right where the boy wanted it. Everyone rejoiced in the victory we all wanted.
We found joy in breaking a rule about how things "should" be. At least I did. It felt wonderful to do something differently than many would, just because we could. On some level, we found freedom in it.
We get to switch things up. We get to examine the rules we consciously hold because they've always been that way. Perhaps our parents raised us perfectly; gently; respectfully. It's good to emulate that in all the ways we can. Or perhaps they didn't, and now, with our own children, we can challenge our long-held beliefs about parenting. We get to break negative cycles. It's important to do that, too.
Sure, some rules make good sense; I'm not suggesting we throw our belongings into trees. Still, along with the rules we know we have, we can catch a glimpse of the ones we didn't even know we were holding. Maybe we reconsider a "truth" we have about discipline, boundaries, or the innate goodness of children.
In examining these things, we regain the same type of freedom that the boy unleashed for us by wanting the ball in the tree. We get to do things our way, even if they're different from what our parents and friends have done with their kids. We get to make our own rules, tossing out our parenting "shoulds" and replacing them with, "Sure, let's try that."
Having this freedom in parenting is not only a gift to our kids, but it's a gift to ourselves, too. Once we know the rules that don't serve our families well, we get to launch them as high and as far as we dare. And they can stick there, never returning.
There's incredible freedom in letting go.
For the past week, I've attended a multi-age outdoor school led by Teacher Tom, who's hailed by parenting experts as one of the "world’s leading practitioners of 'democratic play-based' education."* If you haven't followed his blog or bought his book, you should, and if you can attend his class, even better. Although I exceed the age limit for his class (wait, I don't look 5?), the cooperative model mandates that I spend at least some time working there while my child attends. Since my child wants me to stay at school all the time and it's too far for me to drive home while she's in class, and because I like it there, I stay. All good.
If you know anything about him (or if you don't, now you will), it's that he spends a lot of time observing and engaging with the kids. As an observer myself, it's easy to see how this role suits him. But what does observing Teacher Tom have to do with gentle parenting? Nothing, directly. Besides, he doesn't fit the "gentle parent" poster image some people have in their heads. He's not all hugs and feel-goods. As far as I can tell, he doesn't even shave his face every day (isn't that in the rule book?). So, if he's not raising your kid (and he's not), what does he do that's so special or different that it warrants your attention? Here's what I've witnessed:
He "gets" them and speaks their language. On the first day of class, he picked up a tiara from the playground dirt (where most of the valuable jewels are kept) and put it on his head. A little girl pointed out that he was wearing it backwards. He fixed his error, and shortly thereafter, someone tried to yank it right off him. My adult brain assumed he'd relinquish it (adults are polite, right?), but instead, he respectfully claimed ownership of it and wouldn't share. He wasn't done with it yet.
Without any lecture or adult-infused words about taking turns, he ingratiated himself as one of their tribe by doing what many of them would've done. I wondered if his refusal would be off-putting to the kids, but instead, he'd built credibility. He taught fairness without having to "teach" a thing. Many of us fall victim to playing as adults play: borderline fun, but kind of hung up on enforcing rules. We manufacture "teachable moments" and do our best to stay clean. If building connection is your gentle parenting goal, just look at this guy and the way kids flock to him (I've dubbed the kids his Merry Band of Followers). We take ourselves far too seriously.
Teacher Tom reminds us that we have our kids' permission to act like actual kids.
Red cape or not, I've seen Teacher Tom leap over a tall play structure in a single bound and break up a heated altercation between young boys. To the extent that he plays like the kids do, he's also clearly in charge. He sets limits and holds them unapologetically. Fairly. Respectfully. He's firm without shaming or creating guilt. He corrects behavior immediately when he witnesses a transgression, and then like water off a proverbial duck's back, he goes on playing. There's no room for grudges. They're counterproductive. In following through with his limits without waffling, he builds yet another kind of credibility.
Kids know they can trust him to help when they need him. They don't wonder whether he's a reliable leader; they know he is. As gentle parents, it's easy to second-guess the limits we set in the tough moments and come off as wishy washy. However, no one thrives on shaky ground. Without sacrificing kindness, Teacher Tom reminds us that it's okay to be firm and direct. And then move on.
Teacher Tom challenged the kids to fill a large open canister on wheels, which was at the top of a small concrete hill, with water. Then, they'd experiment to see what would happen when they released it. The kids obliged, lugging bucketful after bucketful of water up, up, up to Teacher Tom, who was sitting most of the way up the hill. He emptied their buckets into it. Once it was finally full to the brim, Teacher Tom counted down for the Big Release. We all waited with eager anticipation. As quickly as the water-filled canister started picking up speed, it stopped just as suddenly,
catching on something, and proceeding to launch aaalllllll the water directly onto him. He was drenched in dirty playground water. His response: "That. Was. Awesome." And he laughed from his belly, just as amused by the surprise ending as the rest of us. He instinctively saw the situation from the kids' point of view; there was nothing to reprimand. What a great reminder that we're teaching our kids how to react when things don't go as planned; what a great way to model resilience.
Before I met Teacher Tom, I didn't know whether to expect him to be some combination of Superman and Mary Poppins (would he wear the cape and have the magical flying umbrella?), or if I expected some Dad-Gone-Rogue-Who-Never-Left-The-Playground. What I observed, though, is that while he's kind of those things, he's foremost really quite human. And you know what, gentle parents? That's really what your kids need most—the ability to see you as a real, true, reliable, flawed, predictable, and regular person who, with any luck, continues to put kindness first.
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There's a little boy in Teacher Tom's multi-age summer school whose name isn't Jimmy, but I'm saying it is to protect his privacy. Jimmy is quite little, as in, he still has to wear a sticker on his back that reads, "Please take me to the bathroom at 2 p.m." He can't be any older than his potty checking time. However, he's surrounded by older kids who don't need stickers on their backs; they've more experience with such things.
Jimmy had been working for almost two weeks to figure out how to climb into the tire swing. It's plenty short enough for him, but by virtue of being a tire swing, it not only sways but also spins when he touches it. Tricky.
Well, today, he succeeded in climbing in by himself for the first time. He looked incredibly proud. However, he immediately encountered a new problem. How would he make it go?
In this new conundrum, he called to Teacher Tom as one would: "Push." He was soft spoken and polite about it; somewhat bewildered to find himself with another new challenge so soon. He'd achieved step one but knew that someone had to do something more.
In response, Teacher Tom warmly yet factually replied, "That swing isn't moving." And he stayed right where he was, watching Jimmy. Now, this is the really tricky part. If Teacher Tom were to respond to every request for a push / a pull / a whatever-it-is, he'd have to be in about 20 places at once, rather than doing his job. Of course he helps kids in need; that is his job. But he doesn't always help them in the way they ask. Sometimes, his best teaching tool is simply waiting to see what the kids can figure out.
In this case, by giving Jimmy his full attention and acknowledging his request for a push, Jimmy likely felt heard. What happened next, though, was an unexpected plot twist.
By not jumping to Jimmy's aide as many would, he opened a door to greater possibilities. Indeed, Jimmy succeeded in conveying his message. What also happened is that another student who's name (isn't) Kate—a highly sensitive child who's disinclined to engage with other kids, and who liberally applies what some would call selective mutism—well, she heard the request, too. To the surprise of those who know her, she piped up, "I can push you, Jimmy!" And to his rescue she came. She helped that little boy swing for a good ten minutes.
So, yeah, Jimmy got the push he desired. Jimmy was happy for climbing in, in the first place. That was his victory. What also happened, perhaps more notably, is that Teacher Tom's "wait and see" approach facilitated very natural cooperation and fostered community among the children.
Kate, a child who wouldn't normally jump into a social scene, saw an opportunity to not only connect in a way where she felt safe emotionally, but also to lend a hand. In doing so, she proved to herself that she could. My guess is that the message will stick with her and manifest in other positive ways throughout her week, and perhaps much longer.
Now, there were two distinctly proud smiles on the playground; one from a child who was swinging high after a mighty climb, and one from a child who got to demonstrate her bravery in a new and unexpected way.
Sometimes the hardest thing we can do, as a parent, is wait to see what happens. And sometimes our kids' best confidence comes from being given the opportunity to grow.
After finishing a two-week, multi-age summer class with Teacher Tom, who's an internationally respected teacher and writer, I asked my child what she thought he was really good at. She pondered my question for a moment and thoughtfully replied, "He's really good at sitting."
Well, shoot. At the risk of bragging, I'm a fine sitter, myself. Now that I know it's Teacher Tom's greatest strength (in her mind), I feel compelled to up my sitting game. Would any of you be up for a sitting challenge, or perhaps agree to be my sitting accountability partner?
The thing is, she's right, but in the most complimentary of ways. Case in point: Jimmy, about whom I’ve written before. His name isn't Jimmy, but I'm saying it is to protect his privacy. He's two.
Teacher Tom showed a broken tricycle to Jimmy and a bunch of other kids. Its seat had long since gone missing, leaving nothing but a flat metal bar in its place. The bike had bigger problems, though. The wheels, although still present on the playground, were no longer attached to it. As quickly as you read about the wheels, however, is how quickly another boy absconded with the back ones, using them to drive some invisible vehicle down a long and reasonably steep dirt hill toward parts unknown. By then, some of the children had lost interest in the few pieces of the bike that remained. Jimmy, however, held firm to the one remaining and detached front wheel, and Teacher Tom had an idea.
Despite usually letting kids figure out what loose parts represent, Teacher Tom said, "This is a steering wheel. One of you can use it to drive this wagon." He pointed to a trusty (and rather rusty) metal wagon that he, himself, used as a child. One of the older boys quickly accepted the challenge, but as soon as it started moving downhill, his expression turned to worry and he quickly abandoned the ride. He took the "steering wheel" with him to play elsewhere.
Jimmy, who was by far the youngest and smallest in the class, wasn't giving up on Teacher Tom's plan so easily. Confidently, he walked up to the wagon and said, "I try." It took him a bit of effort to climb in, but he made it. And then, like he did on the tire swing I wrote about in a previous article, he said, "Push."
The wagon wasn't moving on its own, despite pointing downward on the dirt hill. Teacher Tom replied in a respectful tone, "I'm not your Mom. Moms help people. I'm your teacher; teachers will teach you."
Lest I take offense to his comment (hey, I help and teach, don’t I?), his words resonated with Jimmy, and Jimmy started to thrust his body forward, engaging the wheels of the wagon. Holding the steering handle but not turning it, he drove straight into the backpacks that were hanging on the outdoor hooks. Not far. Soft landing.
Teacher Tom straightened the path of Jimmy's wagon and provided him with a brief tutorial about steering. Now, here I am, an adult who knows a thing or two about physics, and a thing or two about two-year-olds. My confidence wasn't great that Jimmy wouldn't end up in a pile of wood chips, or perhaps crash into a gaggle of other little humans. He didn't have a license to drive that thing.
But lo and behold, Jimmy steered correctly, and dang if he didn't make it all the way down the hill without using small bodies as speed bumps or taking out the garden along his way. He drove it...well. Yes, he drove it very well.
Then, looking pleased as a pumpkin, he got out easily and moved on.
So, yeah, Teacher Tom is good at sitting. My daughter is right. But she went on to clarify: "He's good at sitting and waiting to see if kids can figure things out. But if they need him, he helps them."
As parents, our job is to "sit" in a way that allows children to have the time to think critically, to solve problems on their own whenever possible, and to help them finish each day trusting themselves a bit more than they did the day before. They accomplish most of this, of course, through their critical work of play. That's the kind of sitting I want to do.