Let Children Own Their Learning Moments

Too often parents and teachers want to let children know they approve of what the child is doing, and by doing so they ruin the “learning moment” for the child. Keeping our egos out of our children’s learning is hard to do, but worth doing, as it can help children develop a stronger sense of self, as these letters show.

SPOILING THE MOMENT (From GWS 69)

Wendy Wendt (MN) writes: 

While riding in the car yesterday, I listened as my 9-year-old son practiced a tongue twister over and over again to himself: “How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? He would chuck as much wood as a woodchuck could chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood.”

After several tries, he said it perfectly and I immediately said to him, “That was good!” 

Right away I could see the surprise and disappointment on his face, and he said to me, “You’re acting just like a teacher and I’m supposed to be your student.” 

He was right. Although I hadn’t consciously meant it to sound that way, the words had just popped out. I was excited to see that he had accomplished a goal of his own making. In reality, though, I had nothing to do with him deciding to practice that rhyme or his being able to say it fast and correctly. It was his own choosing and doing and I had unintentionally spoiled the moment for him. He had practiced that rhyme for himself, not for me, and I took the joy of it away by implying that I had something to do with lt.

I apologized, but how I wish I could take the words back. I wish I had not said anything and just let him enjoy the moment for himself as John Holt talked about in GWS 4 (“Batting Practice”). Like John, I hope I, too, can remain quiet the next time.

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Batting Practice (From GWS 4)

John Holt writes:

The eight-year-old I talk about in “Rub-On Letters” lives in a little house on a small side street, really more an alley. Cars seldom come through, so kids can play there safely. In one part of the street there are high board fences on both sides, which makes it a good place for small ball games. My friend and her friends often play their own version of baseball here. For a bat they use a thin stick about three feet long. The ball is a playground ball about six inches in diameter. The rules fit the space perfectly; with that stick, no one can hit that ball over those fences.

The day I arrived, after dinner, she asked me if I would pitch some batting practice. I said Sure, and we had about forty-five minutes worth in the alley. Next morning after breakfast she asked again, and we had about an hour more. Some of the time she very kindly pitched to me—I was amazed to find how hard it was to move that squishy ball with that skinny stick. 

The point of the story is that in all this I did something of which I am quite proud, that I don’t think I could or would have done even five years ago. In our almost two hours of play I did not offer one word of coaching or advice. The words were more than once on the tip of my tongue, once when she tried batting one-handed (she did better than I thought), once when she tried batting cross-handed (she gave it up on her own), now and then when she seemed to be getting careless, not watching the ball, etc. But I always choked the words back, saying to myself, “She didn’t ask you for coaching or advice, she asked you to pitch batting practice. So shut up and pitch.” Which I did.

Nor did I give any praise. Sometimes (quite often, as it happened) when she hit a real line drive, I let out a small exclamation of surprise or even alarm, if it came right at me. Otherwise, we did our work in silence, under the California sun. I remember it all with pleasure, and not least of all the silence. I hope I can be as quiet next time.