IDEC 2013 - part 2 - anticipation and foms

At the music camp I go to twice a year, WoMaMu, we always have a problem with FOMS, also known as the Fear of Missing Something. This happens when there are three or four workshops scheduled at the same time and you want to go to more than one of them. 

I am having an even bigger problem with FOMS here in Boulder as I prepare for the start of the International Democratic Education Conference. Each workshop time has not three or four but TWELVE fascinating workshops to choose from, and I've spent the evening narrowing my choices DOWN to three or four. How will I possibly choose? Let me give you some examples:

Monday afternoon, I could go to:
- Innovative Learning to Build Strong Community
- Consensus and Participation of Communities in Schools
- Making Learning Visible: Documentation as Democratic Praxis

Tuesday morning, I could choose between:
- So, I want to start a school...
- Mindfulness & Movement in the Classroom
- Inquiry, Dialogue, and Really Big Pictures
- A hike in the gorgeous Flatiron mountains.

Tuesday afternoon it gets even harder:
- Cross-cultural experiential learning
- Community and School Parnerships
- Transformational Storytelling
- Music Making as Democratic Learning

...and so on.

One of the gorgeous buildings at the University of Colorado Boulder

One thing I'm really looking forward to is Monday morning's tour of The Patchwork School in nearby Louisville, CO. I feel a special kinship with The Patchwork School because I like to imagine that I kind of invented it. Here's how: I was driving home from work at the preschool one day a few years ago, thinking of how sad it was that our school didn't include elementary ages. I began to daydream about the kind of school I wanted to expand into, and started thinking of names for schools. I came up with The Patchwork School. When I got home I googled it, and found that it already existed and looked even better than my imaginary school. So, I can't wait to see it in person, in action, and to get to hear all about it from the executive director, Michele Beach.

With so much to learn and see and do, I'd better go get some sleep.

the most important song

As a singer/songwriter, I often sing with children in preschool, and sometimes we make up songs together, or change lyrics to songs to include all the different ideas the children suggest.

Sometimes when we're singing at circle time, kids get silly and crazy and make weird noises instead of singing or listening.  Over time I've learned to focus that creative energy into making up new verses, or singing the whole tune only on the word "Meow."  More kids tend to sing along when it's time to sing "Meow" or "Blah" instead of the words.  

But there's one exception.

A long time ago I heard a song called "My Mommy Comes Back" by Hap Palmer.  The chorus stuck in my head:

"My mommy comes back, she always comes back

She always comes back to get me

My mommy comes back, she always comes back

She never would forget me."

I had forgotten that there were verses to the song until I looked it up to link it to this post.  When I started teaching preschool I began singing the chorus to kids who were missing their mommies. Then I started personalizing the song with the child and parent's names.  So for a child named Andrew whose mommy was Jennifer, for example, I would sing:

"Jennifer comes back, she always comes back

She always comes back to get Andrew

Jennifer comes back, she always comes back

She never would forget Andrew."

Always, when singing this song, there is no silliness.  There are no "Blah" or "Moo" sounds.  The child I'm singing to stares into my eyes, and the other children nearby fall absolutely silent, listening.  As soon as the song is over, the chatter begins:  "Now do MY mommy!  My mommy's name is Claire."  "Sing my dad now."  "My daddy's name is Mark."  "Now my Nana."  "Now my Grandpa."  Then everyone listens quietly again as the song is sung, over and over, each child contemplating that most important piece of knowledge in their lives: that a loving adult will always come back to get them. 

Sometimes I sing songs to lighten the mood, to practice phonemic awareness, to play a game, to get to know each other's names, to wait for our friends, to learn a concept, or just for fun.  But "My Mommy Comes Back" is the most important song I've ever sung to kids, and it's an honor every time I do it.

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Here's the link to Hap Palmer's video:

My Mommy Comes Back

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useful

when you are 4
anything is possible
everything is beautiful
disappointments are the worst thing ever
a knocked-over block castle is a disaster
a little blood on your finger makes you wonder
if you are going to die.

when you are 4
everything is original
naptime is unthinkable
under the table is your hiding place
and time is a snail

when you are 4
your stories get longer
your fingers get stronger
you laugh with abandon
when someone says "underwear"

when you are 4
a stick is a sword
     a violin
     a magic wand
     a mixing spoon
     a hairbrush
     a conductor's baton

when you are 4
everything is for climbing on
everything is for painting on
everything is for gluing on
everything is for banging on
everything is useful
if you use your imagination

when you are 4

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One of the teachers got a new mixer for her birthday and brought the box and styrofoam packaging to school for the kids to use.

N. was leaving school with her mom just as I was returning from a parent-teacher conference.  She walked toward the front door with a big smile on her face and a large... something... in her hands, and announced, "Useful."

I looked at it more closely.  She had transformed the mixer's styrofoam packaging into a caddy of sorts, inserting things into its various nooks, crannies, and holes; mostly her artwork made of paper, but also wilted flowers (a.k.a. bells), a hair band, and an extra chunk of styrofoam that she'd colored on with pastels.

Then she noticed that her useful thing still had some vacant space.  There was a round hole on one side, about two inches in diameter.  She looked around and thought about it for mere seconds before she had the solution: on the table next to the fish tank was a small paper cup containing water and some half-wilted flowers that we'd been using in the art room.  She had relocated the flowers to this paper vase herself a day or two earlier, rescuing them from a certain glue-related fate, and decided at this moment that they were going home with her.  She gently and easily fitted the cup into the circular hole in the styrofoam, and giggled with glee.

"Useful," I said, to acknowledge her delight in her creation.

"Useful," she agreed, and off she went with her mom, easily carrying all of her useful things.