Summer Stories 2025
Summer Camp started off quieter and calmer than we are used to. Some folks were still coming back from vacation, or getting better from a cold, so our classes were a little small at first. We also have some new faces at school: kids joining us for the first time, and their first time at school, as well as some grownup people that kids are getting to know.
Teacher Alejandra has a different job during the school year, but she has been with us several summers in a row, and her quiet and careful manner are well appreciated. Teacher Sadie was a Cottage kid herself a few years ago (where do the years go!? Teacher Ana and I both knew her way back when), and she is spending her Summer mornings here with us after a couple years of working with kids at other camps. Teacher Zosia is Teacher Basia’s daughter, and has asked such thoughtful questions and shown so much insight. Teacher Bellamy is Teacher Renee’s child, and also a Cottage Alum whom Ana taught years (decades?!) ago. And finally Teacher Maya, or Teacher Maya Papaya if you’re one of the Big Yard kids, is also herself a Cottage alum, who has been integrated in our local community for a long time, knows a bunch of us from before, and is coming home to Cottage to pursue her dream of being a progressive educator!
The teachers and I have had a little time to sit down together, enjoy food, slow down a little from the hubbub of the regular school year. Some of us are feeling a lot of stress because of the ICE raids impacting our families and communities. Then there’s the regular life stress of changing bodies, aging parents, growing kids, and all the mundane stresses of being a person. The little break last week was a needed deep breath before jumping back in with kids this week.
Today, I got to play in the Big Yard. I watched a child with a plan to fill up a very big jug of water with the outdoor sink. He said it would be a surprise! And indeed it was, because as he filled it, we got close and noticed that the jug would not fill! It had holes in the sides, and water was pouring forth even as he filled it. We watched the water together as it spilled forth. After a while, I suggested a plan of pouring the rest into a big hole that Teacher Jason had dug in the wild part of the yard. The child asked his grownup what I had said, and once he heard my idea, he liked it. They carried the water jug to the hole and dumped it several times, making luscious mud in the dirt-not-sand- part of the yard. The child slipped and slightly fell into the edge of the hole, recovered himself, and then jumped into the mud. Later, I saw many kids working on a project near the hole, covering it with boards, and building on and near it.
Some children were saying they were building a Police Station. But actually, all but one of the officers were constantly out on patrol, and nobody was building. One of the officers told the others, “let’s speak Spanish. Let’s pretend speak Spanish”, and they all agreed. After that, when the officers came back to the Station (the area where a building would be if anyone had built a building), they would talk in completely pretend Spanish, but with typical conversational tones and gestures, similar to the way my kids “spoke Spanish” when they started at their Dual Language Immersion Kindergarten. They would come home singing in made-up Spanish, copying the sounds and tones of conversation and song. They spoke this way for a long time, until one of the officers asked again that they come build the Station. They were at a brief impasse; nobody wanted to build. They agreed to a soccer game instead.
Later, two children made paper rockets by making intricate folds in sheets of paper, and then throwing them. One of them had made some writing marks on hers, and she gave it to me, and asked me to keep it forever, because she had put beautiful stickers on it. I put it in my apron pocket. I was sitting at the blue table with another child, whose drawing paper had swirls, ovals, scribbles, and what I have learned to call “joined-up writing”, which is wavy lines that imitate cursive handwriting. She gave me one of her two colors, and I used mine to imitate her writing moves. Then, she needed it back because she was using two markers in one hand to make lines that paralleled each other, sweeping across her page.
Another child had drawn some hearts and wanted to know why I had drawn lines on my eyes, and if I could buy her some eyeliner to use. I told her it’s for big people, because it hurts when stuff gets in your eyes. This led to a conversation about what was for big people, and we talked about the Big Yard, and how it was too big for some kids at Cottage but the right size for some of the bigger kids. This child will be in Rainforest in September. The two-marker artist is just joining us from the Small Yard. She told me that the Big Yard slide is too big for her.
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A child who doesn’t like anybody to know when they need to use the bathroom slid along the walls discreetly until they made it inside. I stood sentry outside in the corridor, near the kids I was watching in the Lavender Room. They were tending to a friend who had just fallen and bumped their knees. They were making little notes and crafts for them to help them feel better, and it was working.
The child in the bathroom was there a long time. Another child went in to use the second potty, and the first child had said “I am peeing”. The second child finished up, and I went to check in, in case they needed help with anything. They scrunched their face and asked me, “what’s that smell?” It was a bathroom smell, so I told them, “Well, this is a bathroom, so sometimes there are smells”. They decided they wanted to wash their hands on the patio instead.
When I came back to the first person, they were wrapping up and getting off the potty. They told me something about how lovely it smelled in the bathroom, so I agreed. They had more to say, and I was a conversation partner, saying that sometimes rooms smell nice just because of fresh air, and sometimes people even spray fancy smells in bathrooms to make them smell like flowers. I think we agreed that maybe somebody had sprayed fancy flower spray in there (they had most definitely not).
This child had wet clothes from playing in the water outside, so I suggested that I could go get their cubby to find dry clothes, and they declined, saying that they liked wearing wet clothes. I said okay, and waited, as they gathered what needed to happen next, which was them deciding to pull up their wet undies, and then pants, which was a slow and difficult job. That meant we had a lot of time to talk. I mentioned how it can be tricky to pull on wet clothes because they are so heavy and sticky, and they told me, “not for me”, as they kept trying. I said, “I guess not for you, because you have practiced so much”, which is what I say about any endeavor a child has accomplished through their effort and perseverance. I talked about how for me, opening the button on my pants really helps me get them back on, because that is the part that makes it so tight so they stay on my tummy. I added that even undoing the zipper really helps, for me. They told me they didn’t need to do any of that, but after a while, they did unbutton their pants. At the end, they asked for my help to button them again, and I also gave the pants a little yank to get them up a bit further, and closed the button. We washed our hands side by side at the little sinks. I was glad to spend a little extra time to afford this little person the dignity of their bathroom visit being in their control and on their timeline.
A child was at the writing table, working on spelling their name. They had several of the letters on the page, but they couldn’t quite remember what some of the letters looked like. They knew what letters they needed, though, because, as they explained, their dad had written a song about them, and their name was spelled out in it. They sang us the song. It was a beautiful song. Another child at the writing table improvised, telling us their dad had also written a song about them, which they sang, although it was clear it was an impromptu song made at just that moment, and it was beautiful too.
One day, kids were doing a lot of arguing and dumping things out. I sat with kids as they tugged on a blanket they all wanted to use, and sorted and put away puzzle pieces that had been dumped into a big pile. Some kids sat in the puzzle box as I did this, saying they wanted to use the puzzles, but I could see that they were not planning to put together the pieces, but do something else with them that I was probably not going to want to clean up, so I told them these puzzles were not available. They accepted this statement and showed another teacher how they were sitting in the empty puzzle boxes. They were looking for ways to find the limits.
Sometimes, kids at Cottage get so many “yes” answers that they get curious about what will get a “no”. They ask by demonstrating behaviors they believe will do the trick. Sometimes they are right! Sometimes finding where to set a boundary is difficult for parents who are trying to respect their childs’ autonomy, and for teachers who work in a place where there are lots of things we can do, and some things we can’t. For kids exploring where the boundaries are, it is helpful to them when we set clear boundaries.
That does not mean saying things like, “let’s use those markers on paper”, which is a perfectly useful statement to redirect curious artists at other times. For setting a boundary, I have to make that thing unavailable. So this was me, putting my arm in between kids who had started moving their arms in a hitting motion toward each other when the verbal argument (“mine!” “mine!”) had been unsuccessful. I also said words like “I can’t let you hit”, but fundamentally, I had to not let them hit in order to make those words true. I put those puzzles away where they cannot be dumped. We might take a break from markers for a while. And if they ask why, I’ll tell them about my choice to make those things unavailable because of the way they were being used.
Teachers met and talked about our “Third Teacher”, which is the way we call our environment. We made a fresh curriculum plan that takes into account these particular children with these particular needs, right now. We made choices that we think will help them find organized play for themselves, without the need for a lot of correction and redirection from us. We talked about what individual children need from us, their safe adults. And then we joked and laughed and got ready for our weekend of rest.
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One day, a child came up to me about ⅔ through the morning, sighed, and told me they were exhausted. They had been being the mom of two cheetahs all morning and it was hard work. I agreed, and acknowledged their exhaustion. Later, I spoke to a mom of humans about how family games are fascinating to listen to and observe, because they play out power dynamics in unexpected ways, like that babies often control all the other members of the (play) family with their many loud needs.
A child who was needing a lot of extra help and hugs this week wanted to climb the new climber. They were calling, “I need help!”. A parent close by advised them that they were responsible to do their own climbing, but that they were right there, which made sense as they were already halfway up and probably knew how to get higher.
I have been snuggling this little person a lot this week so I suspected that they needed some other kind of help. I went to stand by them. They told me several more times that they needed help. I asked what they wanted help with, and they told me they wanted to reach the top. They were also saying “scary!”, presumably about being up so high. I wondered out loud if their body was telling them this was high enough for now. They said no, they wanted to climb all the way up. I pointed out where their friend was putting their feet to climb higher, and they tried it and reached the top! Then there was more “I need help”, so I came close and put my hands gently on them, advising them to find a place for their feet. They instead curled up like a pill bug in my hands, caused me to carry them down. It’s not Cottage protocol to carry or lift people who are trying to climb, but in this case, I suspect that “I need help” might have just meant, “hold me”.
Two kids got on the swing using our crates. One needed a boost, and the other climbed on from the back, bringing both feet over. I moved the crates out of the way and pushed them. Both children spoke and sang as they swung. One child was saying silly things to me and making jokey noises. Later, they noticed that the person who earlier had told them “you can’t come in” was gone and the play structure was available. I said that it was available even if someone says that to them because actually, Cottage is for everyone. They repeated it, and so did I. Cottage is for everyone.
The other child told me they were singing Pokémon songs. They were narrating the play of some children in front of us, who had also said some version of “you can’t come in”. It’s hard for little kids to break into big kid games, and it often takes a few tries, because little kids are often ready to take direction, and therefore give up easily when turned away. This child, this day, turned and came to the swings with me, where we could be observers, which is actually a pretty effective strategy for understanding a game, and finding future ways to join in.
A child who likes to be the boss of a game was here on a day when their usual friends were not here. They played so many things I have never seen them play! Toward the end of the day, they asked to join a team of (fairies? Princesses? Fairy princesses?) kids in their game, and they said yes. I saw that they were all working to fill up a tub of water to give the baby doll a bath. There were 3 moms in the game, and the child who joined was taking direction from an older child, saying “Yes, Boss!” and “aye aye, Captain!”. They were a great team player and it looked like everyone was having a lot of fun.
I've been stressed, worrying about world (and local) events. It claws at me at 4 am, urging me to wake up and start doomscrolling, or hope-scrolling really. I did that today, but then I picked up my book, and calmed a little down. I got to school an hour early most days this week, just because I was up, and ready to get going. I do some of my admin work, walk downstairs and help set up for the day, or say hello to people. Once the kids get here, even if it’s tricky sometimes, that’s when I feel actually good, because for a few hours a day, the kids here are the only thing I’m thinking about, the only important thing in my world.
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This week, I had a plan to try and spend some time with a kid who I have had to correct sometimes lately. They do stuff they for sure know adults will react to, and so dutifully, I’m helping by setting boundaries. But it doesn’t work optimally well when the adult and the child don’t have much of a relationship. So when I see that a child is going to need lots of adult help from time to time, I endeavor to get to know them well, play with them, read to them, and have them feel super comfortable with me. That ends up having them listen to me a lot more when I do need to set a boundary. They know me; they trust that I am not just being mean, or unfair, or grouchy. Sometimes adults are, after all; even me.
On this day, the child I was wanting to play with was sitting by the toys they wanted to use, by themselves, softly whistling to other children. Nobody seemed to know what that cue meant, so they were sitting there quite some time. I checked in with them, and they excused me, as they were looking for a kid to come play. Still, nobody responded to the whistle entreaty. After a while, they moved closer, whistled and gestured to me to come over there, so I went again.
This time, they told me their plan, and together we worked on some ideas of how to make it happen. It turned out I had some slightly advanced technical skills that were useful on their project, and they really liked my contribution (whereas I have seen them refuse help from kids sometimes). Like with drawing or writing, I try to just play at slightly above the level of the child I’m with, more like an older friend than a big grownup. In teacher education, it’s called scaffolding, and big and little kids do this naturally. This works better for learning because if an adult comes in at full adult skill level (even if you believe that you “can’t draw”), you are bound to be more practiced than your young child, and it can be incredibly discouraging to them if they see they cannot possibly draw like you can right now. They sometimes stop trying altogether. It’s more effective to mirror what they can already do, and just add, like, the next step.
In this case, we were building with blocks. The child had ideas that were having a hard time coming together because they were stacking in angular, unsteady ways. I made a suggestion and offered that if they didn’t like it we could keep going with their plan, but my idea was to stack the blocks solidly and aligned. They did like it, and made a second stack the same. I also built on their idea of putting supports underneath to make something higher, and repeated their process in a different shape, and they liked that too. They were jumping in with a narrative about the structure we were building together, contributing lots of ideas to the play, which went on for a long time as we continued to expand.
As we sat together working, we had some conversation that was related to the play but was about real life. They told me about their home, about a thing they liked, and a thing they didn’t like. Their face became emotional, and they used a word that we don't typically say at school. I reflected that I understood, but substituted a more school-friendly word in my response. At one point, I had to step away for a few minutes, but my new friend was waiting for me when I came back. We spent such a pleasant hour together. I’m looking forward to next time. I also think the next time that I need to offer a correction, it will be a bit easier to hear.
My son and I share a birthday, which is coming up next week. He will be sixteen, and I’ll be 48. This year for his birthday, he asked to take his good friend to Disneyland for the day. He said the friend’s family goes to Disneyland sometimes, but that they have a big family with lots of younger siblings, and for whatever reasons, the oldest brother never gets to go on the roller coasters, and so he wanted a chance for the two of them to go together, and do all the things he can’t usually do. It struck me as so thoughtful that my son asked for his birthday party/present to be something that is so much about thinking of another person and going out of his way to do something kind for him.
I thought it would be harder to raise teenagers. It turns out that I am just still raising the two wonderful kids I have been living with all along. They didn’t turn into angsty monsters (and I say this as a former angsty monster), and they don’t fight with me. We don't have loud door slammings, dramatic eye rolls, or really, even just complaints. What we have is a partnership where I’m still the mom, and they are growing more capable, more independent, little by little, as we go along together. I love it. I love spending time with them, when they’re not busy with their friends, and I feel appreciated and understood, for the most part. From the vantage point of parenting preschoolers, I bet it’s a little hard to imagine a time in the not so distant future when your kids are cooperative, grateful, and (much more) independent. But I bet we all get there eventually.
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This week, I was playing with a child who prefers to have a safe adult very close by. First, we did all the things that the child asked to do in the area where their parent had just dropped them off, and that took a good long time because they seemed disinclined to move very far. When we had done all the things, finally we moved on to the rest of the yard. They were ready to play, but they had to decide what to do.
This is where my story splits into two paths, because that first part happened with more than one child. In one story, we decided to dig. We sat down in the sandbox and picked up shovels. Several other children immediately joined us, and the chatter was that we were digging a river. The child I was trying to draw out suggested digging a lake. I suggested a river that flows into a lake, and they liked that idea. We all dug. We all practiced keeping sand low. We all practiced moving our shovels in a way that didn’t whack anybody else who was digging there.
One person was not practicing keeping sand low. They were throwing sand high each time, despite my repeated reminders, and filling in the lake with sand. They were standing very close to the edge of the lake. The person who was digging the lake lost patience after a while and gave their legs a little bonk from their shovel. The person with the bonked legs cried very sadly, in a way that seemed perhaps not really about what was happening in the sandbox, and went to give themselves space to have a little cry. I spoke with the person digging the lake, asking, “Were you trying to tell them you needed some more space?” They were. I said that they could tell them with words, but that we can’t hit people. I went to follow up with the person who was still crying a little. They were missing their mom. The digging game dissolved as people peeled off to listen to books being read in the shade of the big Mulberry tree.
In a different version of the story, the child I was with decided to try out the wooden swing in the far corner of the Big Yard. They told me they couldn’t get on it. I stood very close and said, I think you can. They told me they couldn’t. I waited. They were trying, and still telling me they couldn’t do it. We talked about how they could try holding the swing and sitting down on it, not just on the edge but well into it, because it kept tipping when they sat on the edge. They told me they couldn’t some more, while they were using their two hands to hold the ropes of the swing and sit down on it successfully.
Then they told me they wanted to go high. I showed them how since their feet were touching, they could make the swing move all by themselves. They didn’t like that idea. They wanted high pushes. I was resisting for a couple reasons: One, this child tends to want to tell adults what is going to happen so they can do exactly what they want and nothing else, and I’m not interested in playing that kind of game because we are at school and my job is to press a little toward growth; and two, this swing is over some not so soft ground, so I feel it’s safer if the swing only moves by kid-power, instead of the greater force of a strong adult.
I was sitting down a few feet away so the swing had space to move. The child told me in increasingly unhappy tones that they wanted high pushes. I said things like, “you really want high pushes”. I described how they could use their feet to push off the ground. They told me they wanted high pushes. While this went on, they began to use their feet to push sometimes, but if I pointed it out, they stopped, so I stopped pointing it out. They began twisting the swing around in circles as we gently argued, such that the ropes of the swing were wound up to provide a fun untwisting motion; they decided to let it untwist and smiled as they spun fast. We went on like this for some time, with me gently resisting interfering and the child gently persisting in practicing the skills I was looking for, but entirely on their terms.
I heard myself a few times this week talking with parents after class about how for their particular child, I saw that they had some safe activities, and some areas that were a challenge, and that my plan is generally to continue to provide some of that safe play, but push a little when I can find an edge. How that looks can be wildly different from child to child: one child loves to run but has a challenge sitting down together and listening, another child loves to read but has a challenge playing when other kids may want a turn with the toy they want.
This is what’s so curious to me about educational philosophies that are written and static. They account for the general developmental stages of play and of children, but they don’t account for individual children. Each child, each little person is so particular. Even kids who don’t show such dramatically strong preferences as some children do– they have wants, needs, and preferences, just like any of us. They have strengths and difficulties, just like any of us. There is no standardizing us. We continue to be highly individual throughout our lives.
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This week, the story sticking with me most is a small one, about one small person. I came into the room when almost everyone was there, listening to Teacher Basia, who was playing Pete Seeger’s enchanting recording of the story and song, Abiyoyo, which had most of the kids transfixed on the rug. At the close of the story, at least one child transformed into the monstrous title character, practicing what it would feel like to be big and powerful.
I sat at the far end of the room with one or two children who were quietly building with blocks as they listened from far away. As the mood in the room transitioned from rapt storytime to finding our shoes and water bottles, or washing up for Lunch Bunch, a small crowd of children began to gather near my end of the room, far from the noisy lunch tables. I recognized these children as people who often have trouble sitting to eat for various reasons. They engaged themselves in play, not admitting to anyone that they might be hungry, because then for sure they would have to come wash their hands and sit down.
The not-eating-lunch children were trying to play, but they were cranky. They were easily on each other’s nerves. They tried to find things to do that would keep themselves several feet apart and out of each other's way but they just kept colliding somehow in attempts to collaborate that kept failing.
After a while, several children were leaning on my legs, standing next to me, or otherwise crowding one play area. They were reaching over each other, knocking over their projects, and one child in particular was becoming increasingly frustrated. As their project fell apart into many pieces, I acknowledged their upset, and suggested that they might feel better if they ate. They agreed, and it helped others agree as well to go eat.
This child retrieved their lunchbox with a plan to eat inside, with the toys. I blocked them, several adults reminding them that we eat at the tables. The child was furious, crying, pushing my legs to get past. I suggested that they eat at the table in my lap, a big comfy person chair, and they instantly agreed and walked calmly to the emptied table.
For the next half hour, I was a big comfy chair for one little person who likes a whole lot of snuggles and pressure on their body. They twisted and turned, nuzzled, turned upside down, chatted, leaned, curled up, stretched out, and ate their lunch with me. And somehow, hours later, I still have an impression in my chest of their little body pressed against me, and my chin is missing the top of their head, lonely for their silky hair. My arms are feeling empty without their curled up limbs pressing on them. My lap is sitting here unused.
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The Big Yard kids have an ongoing game of “Delivery”, with several kids swapping out different roles in an ongoing understanding that requires them to pay attention and notice the rules of the game. The basic game is that one or more children stand at the top of the play structure, and request delivery of some item, and whatever kids are at the bottom in the sandbox gather and deliver that item to a bucket hanging at the end of a rope. Then, when everyone agrees that the delivery is ready, the kid or kids at the top pull up the bucket and receive it, and then lower the bucket back down for the next round.
For such a basic premise, there is so much creative work happening for all the players. The player requesting delivery keeps having to come up with some item they need more of that is somehow going to be available in our playground. Often there is a reason or backstory provided: they need sand because they are building a beach. They need leaves to feed an animal. They need flower petals to bake a cake. Anyone who has been recruited to play pretend with a little kid and has been asked to repeatedly generate new elements to the game knows that this is exhausting imagination work.
The players providing the resource also have to be creative. It’s an easy ask when it’s sand, but it’s trickier when it’s water, since they then have to find a vessel to transport water, find where water is standing and available to use, and then scoop and transport the water to the delivery bucket over the rough terrain of the busy sandbox. It’s hard physical work to gather flower petals, as you have to be hunched over and using your pincer grasp to collect individual fallen petals out of the sand under the shady tree. Often, I’m hearing the kids making the delivery asking if they need a lot or a little of the resource. The answer changes, but a scarce resource like the petals never seems to be enough.
There’s also this social communication happening between the players. The person at the top has to say what they are asking for in a way that makes other people want to play. I have seen the game fall apart if there isn’t a kid willing to take direction from the person at the top calling out the request. There needs to be a deftness and a certain kind of generosity from the person making the requests so that the people collecting resources feel motivated to keep going. I notice that it tends to be the oldest kids in the group up top and younger ones down at the bottom, generally. I see that they are watching the collecting to see if the game is still working, and coming up with creative solutions to keep it going if it lags. It requires lots of patience and attentiveness to make those requests.
The kids making deliveries have to pay attention to the implicit rules of the game, and do the part that they have agreed to in the spirit of cooperation, and they gently criticize each other if someone feels they aren’t fulfilling properly. I have seen delivery players calling out a child adding sand to a slowly filling bucket of leaves, and there was a brief debate wondering if that is allowed. The players at the top don’t seem to get involved; it’s a matter for the gatherers.
All this leads to the most exciting part of the game, when the players announce that the delivery is ready, and the other kids pull up the bucket on the rope, and dump the contents out up there, lowering the bucket back down. Not once have I seen someone careless with the bucket and knocking someone with it as it returns down to the sand. This requires remarkable control, precision, and care, since all the little kids are usually still right there under the drop zone, not yet aware of the prudent idea of stepping aside.
At a different school, I imagine adults would police this part, since the potential for a little kid getting hit in the head with a bucket or sand falling into someone’s eyes is certainly present. Cottage grownups trust kids, staying quietly to the side, ready to help but not interrupting, as best we can. Think for a moment about the most exciting part of a game, any game, and how it would change if some authority figure was constantly butting in at just that moment to talk about the rules. We can have rules and safety without making every moment a time when grownups are lecturing about the right way to do something we have probably not done since our own childhood. Instead, with trust, we can allow mild risk and watch to see if the kids we are caring for understand how to navigate the situation.
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I’m an observer. I pride myself on it, because I think it’s a big part of what makes me a good teacher. When I’m at school, I love to find a place to be where I can see in almost every direction, and I try to be close enough to hear the conversation of at least some of the kids at play. I usually sit down, because an adult standing over kids is a different feeling for them than if I sort of try to blend into the scenery. Not hiding, just not intruding, ideally.
Sometimes I choose my spot because I suspect that the child or game I’m observing will need some adult support. Sometimes the kids all seem busy and I just take the opportunity to hear what their games are about. Sometimes I’m just curious about a child I don’t know as well, or a child who is doing something I’m curious about. And sometimes, I observe while fulfilling a request from a child, like being pushed on the swing, or sitting with them at Snack.
This week, I had some charming companions in my observations. A fellow observer joined me many times this week in sitting near a game and listening to the story that was unfolding. We would chat in asides, following along and wondering about what we saw. Sometimes the other observer would decide to play, too, but mostly they chose that when there weren’t other kids in the immediate area. Sometimes other children came and joined them in play, and I noticed that seemed to work better than them joining a game already in progress.
Today, that observer was peeking at me through the window of the playhouse as I pushed another observer on the swing. They might have been waiting for me to come back. I gave them that teeny bit of space: that 10 or so feet between our positions. They smiled at me through the window, and visited with another teacher. Eventually, they went to play in what they later told me was a pool (a very big hole with water in it). They told me, while changing out of wet clothes later, that they liked getting wet after all.
The observer on the swing could see almost the whole yard from there. They chatted with me about this and that. They brought up the topic of bugs, and we each offered our favorites (a common topic this week for several reasons). I stopped pushing so I could go around front and hear them better. I also stopped pushing because sometimes a person needs a reason to choose something new.
I sat down on the other swing, saying I was going to have a turn. They liked to hear that. Together, we observed the rest of the class, frantically busy on our last day of summer camp. Kids in the play structure told how old they were and what school they were heading to next. Someone was lying down in the cool sand, looking up at the trees. Someone had the hose and was making the river flow with water. Another person was digging the passage.
My companion observer told me they were going to push me. They needed the crate to get down, so I got up and put it down securely under their swing, and they climbed down. I sat back down on the other swing, and they pushed me. Then they untied my red apron and playfully pulled the strings. Then they gently whacked me with pool noodles, before going off to play in the mud kitchen. I changed my seat to be closer, so I could hear their narration. I was the only observer left on my team. The kids were all busy playing.