Talking to myself

 

Talking to myself

 
by Mabel Lucie Atwell

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

I've spent a good deal of my life talking to myself. Occasionally I've disguised it as teaching. It can look as though the little children sitting at your feet are drinking in every word when what they're really doing is wondering why they can’t go home, or why you’re so extremely old, just like their mums or even their grandmothers.

 

Sometimes, a small child will boldly reach out and touch the polished surface of your shoe to see if it really is shiny or just wet. Once in a while an infant will whisper shyly, 'I like your blouse' or even, touchingly, 'I like you.' Sometimes, they will mistakenly call you, ‘Mummy.’ Worse, they will call you, ‘Grandma.’

Children can be devastatingly honest when young, and unhampered by conformity. One day, a little girl put up her hand to say, 'Excuse me, I don't like you.' There’s no textbook answer to that.

Often actions speak more piercingly than words. Couching instructions in the form of requests – 'Would you like to . . . ?' can be answered by the child shaking his head vigorously or turning his back and walking away. If the instruction/request involves items to be sorted, or put away, the answer may be an eloquent gesture sweeping the items to the floor, or, if already on the floor, far and wide across the room. Nothing could be plainer – the child does not want to cooperate. If the instruction/request is repeated a little more firmly there are several possible outcomes:-

1: the child acquiesces and does as she is told. Result!

2: the child bursts into noisy sobs and demands his mummy.

3: the child repeats 'NO' with increasing vehemence until your ear drums are ringing, she has turned purple with rage and ends up having a full-blown tantrum, maybe even succeeding in making herself sick.

4: the child throws the items at the nearest adult (you) and possibly aims a kick at your shin.

5: the child wets himself, indicating at the same time, by the volume of the flow, that he has not emptied his bladder since the night before.

6: the child soils herself, indicating at the same time that she consumed far too much fruit the previous day.

None of these results were quite what was in mind at the beginning of the 'lesson'. I believe that the hardworking teachers of very young children deserve more generous pay than their scholarly colleagues at the other end of the age range, when students attend lessons (now known as lectures) voluntarily, are usually articulate and toilet-trained, can dress themselves, use a handkerchief, and know that writing on walls is unacceptable. Pause here, while I think about this last statement – okay, they know it's unacceptable but do it anyway, arguing the right to free expression.

Those outcomes were to be expected occasionally, but most children were shocked if their class-mates behaved so badly.

In the twenty-first century, teachers of small children have a much more challenging task than used to be the case. A lot of the problems seen today have been blamed on Covid lockdowns and the subsequent isolation of families. Personally, that’s a cop-out.

In the UK, children enter school in the September following their fourth birthday. Increasingly, many are still wearing nappies, (diapers) and sucking dummies, (pacifiers) and have no idea about sitting at a table to eat. Knives and forks are as unfamiliar to them as books, crayons, paint, conversations. They have either been completely indulged, or are accustomed to being overseen by the television or the tablet. Many are barely able to speak, the to and fro of conversation being quite alien to them.

Some parents wish to be their child’s ‘best friend’ and fear that correcting, or even guiding, their child will damage its developing personality. Is it stunting a child’s development to stop him or her punching you as you try to contain the blows? Uttering soft words, like, ‘That’s not kind,’ and ‘Remember what we said about hitting people?’ without reinforcing them, does not work. The child is desperately seeking boundaries and, not receiving them, is driven to further outrageous behaviour. I have seen such children at three years old, and a few years later in life, and they are not pleasant companions. Now thirteen, they have found that life in school has been much harder than it need have been.

It used to be the case that parents were sent letters of instruction before their child started school. They would be advised to make sure their child was able to dress him or herself, a necessary skill for PE lessons and playtime in a draughty playground, use a handkerchief, be able to look after their basic hygiene, use scissors safely, be able to listen and follow instructions. Even before a child was allowed to enter pre-school, it would be expected to be out of nappies, and able to say its name and sex.

It is unreasonable to expect teachers, and their hard-pressed classroom assistants, to undertake changing nappies and the teaching of the basic etiquette of life. It has frequently been the case, in less affluent areas, that some young children have been disadvantaged through not being exposed to books or toys, or conversation, or the companionship of their peers. Now it seems that more and more children, from all backgrounds, are not receiving the basic help they need from their families to confront life.

Some teachers report being kicked, bitten, and spat at by children as young as five. Others have taken the precaution of wearing ‘bite guards’ under their clothes. It is not surprising, then, that so many teachers leave the profession for something less taxing.

 

 

 

 

 

Talking to myself

Talking to myself

In a bid to exercise what’s left of my grey cells I am revising some old posts. Here is a reworked version of something I wrote 11 years ago, ‘Talking to myself’.

Until I retired, I spent a good deal of my life talking to myself. Occasionally I disguised it as teaching. Usually, I taught older children, who had already learnt to conform to the conventions of school life (translation: ‘do as they were told’) but sometimes I was called on to work with younger children.

The most testing times were when I was with the youngest children, then called ‘Nursery’, now known as ‘Pre-school’. It could seem that the little children sitting at my feet were drinking in every word when what they were really doing was wondering who made the cracks in the ceiling, or why my hair looked young when the lines on my face clearly indicated that I was extremely old, just like their mums or, worse yet, their grandmothers.  Sometimes a small child would touch the polished surface of my shoe to see if it really was shiny or just wet. Once in a while an infant would whisper shyly, ‘I like your blouse’ or even, touchingly, ‘I like you’.

Children can be devastatingly honest when young and unhampered by conformity. One day a little girl of about 4 put up her hand to indicate that she wished to speak and when acknowledged, said politely, ‘Excuse me, I don’t like you.’ I cannot remember my response - I may have said something like, ‘Oh, that’s a shame, because I like you.’ Cringe-worthy, I know.

Often actions spoke more piercingly than words. Couching instructions in the form of requests – ‘Would you like to . . . ?’ could be answered by the child looking straight through me or shaking his head vigorously or turning his back and walking away. If the instruction/request involved three-dimensional items to be sorted, built, placed, the answer could be an eloquent gesture sweeping the items to the floor, or, if already on the floor, far and wide across the room. Nothing could be plainer – the child did not want to cooperate. If the instruction/request was repeated a little more firmly there were several possible outcomes:-

1: the child acquiesced and did as he was told asked. Result!

2: the child burst into noisy sobs and demanded her mummy.

3: the child repeated ‘NO’ with increasing vehemence until my ear drums were ringing, he had turned purple with rage and ended up having a full-blown tantrum, maybe even succeeding in making himself sick.

3: the child threw the items at the nearest adult (me) and possibly aimed a kick at my shins.

4: the child wet herself, indicating at the same time, by the volume of the flow, that she had not emptied her bladder since the night before.

5: the child soiled himself, indicating at the same time that he had consumed far too much fruit the previous day.

Any of these outcomes could happen very quickly but fortunately not often, though sometimes coinciding with a prospective parent/visitor being shown round ‘our family-friendly school.’

None of them was quite what was intended at the beginning of the ‘lesson’. As every parent knows, young children can be exhausting. Twenty or thirty of the same age can be a small but intimidating army.

I believed then, and still maintain, that the hardworking teachers of very young children deserve more generous pay than their colleagues at the other end of the age range, when students attend lessons (now known as lectures) voluntarily, can concentrate for more than 5 minutes, (all right, that’s debateable) are usually articulate and toilet-trained, can dress themselves and use a handkerchief and know that writing on walls is unacceptable. Pause here, while I consider this last statement – okay, they know it’s unacceptable but do it anyway, arguing the right to free expression.   

Creature of the Wild

Thanks to Josie of ‘Two Shoes Tuesday’ who hosts this writing meme. Her prompts this week are ‘Creature’ or ‘Wild’.

Creature of the Wild

She felt like a Creature of the Wild, living on her wits. Daily she faced her demons with courage, a smile hiding her fear. She addressed them quietly, almost apologetically, in case she incited their derision. The hollow memories of scornful laughter from her earlier days remained with her and informed her current behaviour. She used her cunning to short-circuit their route to discovering her weakness. She digressed, tricking them into focussing on objects beyond her. She amused and entertained them and sometimes sensed a certain camaraderie but as soon as she allowed herself to relax the supposed amity vanished and they were united against her once more.

Each morning she rose and set out, a sick feeling in her stomach, her mouth dry, her pulse racing. Every evening, going home, she congratulated herself on surviving another day. How long would this persist? Could she escape?

As the years rolled by she began to look at her demons through different eyes. It was they who were the Wild Creatures, not her. With greater experience she was able to circumvent their more atrocious behaviour but realised with sadness that her joie de vivre was dying, shrivelling through lack of oxygen, bludgeoned by the relentless repetition of harsh blows. The cudgels were verbal but nonetheless painful.

On her last day she felt triumphant. The demons had never managed to slice through her armour and discover her frailty though some had come close. She listened to the voice of her employer. ‘Today we say farewell to Miss Thomas. She has been a well-loved and respected member of staff and will be greatly missed.’ Polite applause followed.

For years afterwards Miss Thomas had recurring nightmares of her demons rising up against her. They stood and advanced, chanting, ‘No, no, no – we won’t and you can’t make us.’

Why had she ever thought teaching might be an enjoyable profession?

Buddy is a teacher

A belief that Barry often reiterates is that teachers will not, cannot be told. This is a direct result of having been married to me for harumphety-humph years. A teacher is autocratic, accustomed to controlling his or her own small universe – the class! For my husband, teachers are a caste apart – they are poor listeners (I’m not!!), think they know best (obviously we do!) and never allow adverse criticism. This is why OFSTED inspections are so painful!

Parents who tell us we’ve done wonders with their child/ren are welcomed with beaming smiles and open arms. Those who are less happy are clearly deranged. To be honest, it is challenging for teachers working in isolation (apart from 20 to 30 pupils – and I used to have nightmares about the whole class revolting – no, some of them were repulsive ;-/ – rebelling against my feeble attempts at order and discipline . . . )  - I repeat, it is difficult, nigh impossible to be objective about one’s performance.

So, okay, the infants have ignored your instructions/advice/tutelage to refrain from licking each other, your shoes, the windows, the floor, but you’re doing your best. They won’t sit down, they keep sitting down, they won’t talk to you, they won’t STOP talking to you – in short, they won’t do as you ask/ cajole/bribe/order them to. You might as well be talking to yourself. It’s my belief that retired teachers of very young children are easily spotted because they chatter away to themselves, regardless of other people. You know they’re not using mobile phone earpieces –teachers are accustomed to the sound of their own voices and are not really interested in what their fellow humans may have to say.

Having exhausted all avenues of communication and feeling extremely foolish after trying to demonstrate what is expected – the infants, mildly interested for a few seconds, stare bemusedly with fingers in mouths or noses or other orifices, their own or another’s and then wander off to pursue different activities - a few teachers give in and let the children play all day, claiming that some spurious research validates this method of teaching. Others decide to leave the profession and take up a formerly despised nine to five job where the work can be left behind at the end of the day. Yet more will never give up – it’s the long holidays, you see.

If you are one of the stayers you cannot admit that the atmosphere in your classroom is NOT GOOD ENOUGH so you blame the weather – too hot, too cold, too wet, too windy. Then you place a layer of guilt at the parents’ feet – too strict, too lenient, too inexperienced, too old to cope, too pushy, too complacent – but that doesn’t work. Next to assume the mantle of culpability are the rest of the staff – Mrs H lets them do as they please, Mr K shouts at them, Miss W doesn’t like them, Ms Y works them too hard. No, no good there so the last one almost the last one to blame is the headteacher – she doesn’t know half the children, he never comes into the classroom, she babies them, he patronises them, why can’t she take a class occasionally? When you finally accept that none of the aforementioned can really be responsible for the absence of harmony and authority in your room (all the other rooms are deathly quiet or have what teachers like to refer to as ‘a working hum’ – the hum is often not just in the noise, either, but that’s another story!) there is really only one person whose shoulders must bear the burden of condemnation and that is yourself, at which point, according to your temper temperament, you weep, shout, laugh, swear (but not in front of the children) or storm out, never to return.

Now I had not meant to go off at this tangent, or indeed, any tangent at all. Suffice it to say that I should never have gone into teaching. I’m not very good with children. I couldn’t do anything with the four I gave birth to so expecting to cope with other people’s offspring was a given no-no. I should have been a librarian or a shelf-stacker or a postwoman – healthy life that, with all the walking and the heaving about of heavy sacks in all kinds of weather.

I said that Buddy is a teacher and maybe he was one in a former life. His attitude is that of any this teacher. He’s very independent and quite fastidious and definitely always knows best. He’s an old boy now and needs a little assistance to go up and downstairs. Sometimes his back legs go into a position, parallel to his body, where he cannot use them to lever himself to his feet. During the day he alternates between garden, sitting room, kitchen and conservatory. I don’t need a keep-fit regime – I’ve got Buddy. When he’s in the sitting room his chosen bed is the three-seater settee, suitably draped in a succession of colourful throws, for ease of cleanliness. He prefers to have a clean couch. Whether or not he is able to ascend his throne is governed by a number of factors:

1:  Has he had a sufficiently long run-up stagger-up?

2:  Are the settee cushions settled firmly on the support? (they should be, I put them in place a hundred times a day!)

3:  Is there a mat next to the settee so that his paws don’t slip on the wooden (laminate) flooring?

4:  Has he got the balance right so that he can lie down where and how he pleases? (This morning I heard him grizzling and when I investigated he’d pushed open the patio door with his super-strong nose and attempted the ascent of the sofa but slipped and landed half in and half out of a dog basket. He was stuck there like a stranded beetle, though not on his back, so not really like a beetle at all.)

Sometimes Buddy cannot quite manage the last push and a gentle touch on his harness gives him the confidence to continue the clamber onto his bed. That is quite acceptable to him – after all, we both know he’s done most all of the work himself. On other occasions, thinking to help, I will lift him onto the settee and settle him down. As soon as I leave his side he’s climbed off again and determined to do it all by himself – and he does. Just like a teacher, see? Won’t be told, won’t be helped – I’ve just realised why, actually, this very moment. He was born under the sign of Aries, just like me, so he shares with me all the characteristics of that stubborn animal. So, Buddy isn’t a teacher – he is a Ram!

Spelling #1

I used to have a copy of this poem by Frances Mackay on my classroom wall together with a longer piece about pronunciation that I will post later. I don't know if the children ever read it after the first time I pointed it out but it amused me.

No wonder I can't spell!

Learning the English language
Is not something at which I excel.
When so many words sound the same
It's no wonder that I can't spell!

Just look at the words that follow
And I'm sure that you will agree.
There's might and mite, and blue and blew
And flour and flower – do you see?

Which 'to' should I use in a sentence
When there's three different kinds to choose?
And three different 'so's and two different 'dough's;
Do you think it is done to confuse?

Well I think it is time that we changed it
To help other people like me.
Then I can stop worrying about spelling
Oh how wonderful that would be! (or is it bee?)

Talking to myself again

Teaching has not been the only occasion of my soliloquies. I have spent large chunks of time with small and larger children, my own and my own's own. A constant barrage of 'Why?' from earliest toddledom is followed by years of 'How do you spell . . . ?' and 'What does ?? mean?' and Where's . . . ?' interspersed with my homilies on subjects ranging from the inadvisability of wearing four-inch heels and bare legs in the middle of a cold snap to the wisdom or otherwise of sailing in a Force 9 gale.

There have always been animals around as well, mingling with children of various ages and sizes so of course they must be included in conversations and greeted on returning from outings. I reassure the birds as I set out their food and ask the fish and frogs if all is well in their watery world. The plants and trees are given encouragement and I marvel at the bees and congratulate them on their pollen-collecting skills. I even talk to spiders to ask them to please keep their distance.

There is little wonder then that I talk all the time.

Our children are grown and flown and visit frequently for short periods when everyone talks at once and no-one listens. The dogs and cats listen intently until they have been fed, watered or exercised, then they sleep. I know Barry hears me but often doesn't listen (or register) for he inhabits another planet entirely so usually I am alone, though never lonely.

The advent of the mobile phone has been a blessing for me for now it is completely normal to look as if one is talking to oneself but even thus, it is a give-away when I say enthusiastically, 'Oh, look! Look at those flowers . . . or sheep . . . or shoes' and there is no-one anywhere near me. I can never understand people who say, 'I didn't know I'd lost my voice because I didn't see anyone to talk to.' I would know instantly and then ask myself why I was whispering.

A Day Out

I spent the day with two of our daughters and their partners and it was lovely – so pleasant to be away from the house and leave the responsibility for animal husbandry to my husband. That sounds quite grand doesn't it? Anyone reading this might think we have a smallholding with a flock of hens, a small herd of goats with an accompanying donkey, a house cow, some ducks and perhaps a pig or two. Wrong! We have four dogs, two cats and my mother-in-law is staying for a few days.

Barry had told the daughters he was sending me First Class so I felt as if I should be wrapped in brown paper and string with maybe a dollop of sealing wax to seal the knots. On the train I received two calls from him, both Frodo the Faller related. Once in the pub garden where we were having lunch another call came from him – he was definitely feeling the strain of entertaining his mother. In the preceding years after he has collected her (again, rather like a parcel) he has then gone about his business, often far away on a different continent while I have kept his mother company. He is a lovely man but not patient; she is sweet but single-minded and generally I act as a buffer between the two. Sometimes relationships can be awkward to navigate or even circumnavigate but I think my teaching career gave me some valuable experience in social negotiations – if you can cope with feuding four-year-olds or swearing sixteen-year-olds, dealing with awkward adults is a cinch.

All now is peaceful – everyone fed and watered (or wined) and relaxed.

Talking to myself

I've spent a good deal of my life talking to myself. Occasionally I've disguised it as teaching. It can seem that the little children sitting at your feet are drinking in every word when what they're really doing is wondering why your hair looks young when the lines on your face clearly indicate that you're extremely old, just like their mums or, worse yet, their grandmothers. Sometimes a small child will boldly reach out and touch the polished surface of your shoe to see if it really is shiny or just wet. Once in a while an infant will whisper shyly, 'I like your blouse' or even, touchingly, 'I like you'.

Children can be devastatingly honest when young and unhampered by conformity. Very politely a little girl may put up her hand to indicate that she wishes to speak and when acknowledged say, 'Excuse me, I don't like you.' Often actions speak more piercingly than words. Couching instructions in the form of requests – 'Would you like to . . . ?' can be answered by the child shaking his head vigorously or turning his back and walking away. If the instruction/request involves three-dimensional items to be sorted, built, placed, the answer may be an eloquent gesture sweeping the items to the floor, or, if already on the floor, far and wide across the room. Nothing could be plainer – the child does not want to cooperate. If the instruction/request is repeated a little more firmly there are several possible outcomes:-

1: the child acquiesces and does as he is told. Result!

2: the child bursts into noisy sobs and demands her mummy.

3: the child repeats 'NO' with increasing vehemence until your ear drums are ringing, he has turned purple with rage and ends up having a full-blown tantrum, maybe even succeeding in making himself sick.

3: the child throws the items at the nearest adult (you) and possibly aims a kick at your shin.

4: the child wets herself, indicating at the same time, by the volume of the flow, that she has not emptied her bladder since the night before.

5: the child soils himself, indicating at the same time that he consumed far too much fruit yesterday.

None of these outcomes were quite what was in mind at the beginning of the 'lesson'. I believe that the hardworking teachers of very young children deserve more generous pay than their colleagues at the other end of the age range, when students attend lessons (now known as lectures) voluntarily, are usually articulate and toilet-trained, can dress themselves and use a handkerchief and know that writing on walls is unacceptable. Pause here, while I think about this last statement – okay, they know it's unacceptable but do it anyway, arguing the right to free expression.