In the last post, I told you about a song that turned into background music. Today we start with the first step that brought it back to life: Why. But honestly, I wasn’t always a teacher who knew her why.
“Can I… try this?”
So many of my days in the classroom started with that question. Looking down at the materials in my hands. Reaching for the block basket, then stopping halfway.
“Is this… right?”
“Is this activity… okay?”
A teacher always hovering one step back. Standing in front of the children, but with no confidence, and no sense of professional ground beneath her feet.
It was during my placement in the baby room. One of the one-year-olds was staring at a small mirror stuck inside a board book. Not turning the page. Not moving. Just looking, for a long time.
That moment stayed with me, so the next day I brought in two child-safe mirrors. But when it came time to take them out, my hands stopped. I shuffled over to my mentor and finally managed to say,
“Um… I brought these in…”
She looked at the mirrors and said right away, “Oh! These are lovely. Let’s do an activity with them!” Then she added that children this age start to discover themselves, little by little, by looking at their own faces in the mirror.
With that one sentence, my two mirrors became something different. Not just “something a baby might like,” but an activity with a reason. I didn’t realise it then, but she had given my activity the strength of theory. And I didn’t yet have that strength on my own.
And then pick-up time comes, and so do the questions.
“How is my child going lately? What kind of development are you seeing?”
“She loves doing this at home. Is that a normal stage?”
“He keeps lining up his blocks one by one. Why does he do that?”
How do you usually answer?
For a while, I couldn’t really answer at all. I’d say things like “He’s doing well” or “She really enjoys it” and move on. It took me a long time to understand why those questions left me stuck. I didn’t have a why.
We already ask “why” every day
It’s strange, really, because in everyday life we ask “why” all the time.
When we choose a book, we wonder why this one, and who has read it before us. When we choose where to travel, we ask why there, and what people who’ve been have to say. We read reviews, listen to stories, and make up our minds from there.
So what about teaching children?
Why this activity?
Has someone already tried this activity and left their story behind?
These are questions every teacher needs to ask.
Why we start with the theorists
Anyone who has studied early childhood remembers that first unit. Piaget, Vygotsky, Erikson, Bronfenbrenner. A list of theorists, philosophers and educators to learn. Honestly, back then I wasn’t sure why it mattered.
We always say every child is unique, every child is different.
And yet we also say that children’s development always moves from somewhere to somewhere.
Children are never still. They grow, they develop, and today they are not quite who they were yesterday.
Their differences matter, both when we try to understand them and when we plan for them. But underneath those differences, there are things every child still needs to grow into. Even a child who is brilliant at block building can’t spend the whole day only building blocks. That child also needs to learn to sit down at lunchtime and eat a meal, and when a friend grabs a block, to say “That’s mine, give it back” instead of screaming.
So how does a teacher know where a child is right now, and where they might go next?
That’s what theory gives us. Theorists are people who watched many, many children over a long time and drew the path before us. We learn them first because without their maps, we can’t see where the child in front of us is standing.
But no single map covers every child
Still, I can’t fall for one theorist and follow them forever. Just as every child is different, no single theory can explain every child. Australia’s Early Years Learning Framework says the same thing: educators draw on a range of theoretical perspectives, not just one (AGDE, 2022).
Let me show you what I mean.
Child S lines up his blocks one by one, carefully, in a row.
Remember that question from the start? “He keeps lining up his blocks. Why does he do that?” Today, I could answer it like this: “S is exploring the world through lining things up right now. Piaget called this a schema. So in the room, we’re giving him more materials he can line up, and more patterns to try.”
Same question. But with a reason, the answer changes completely.
And there’s child B, who gives up quickly whenever something feels hard. If I offer her a challenge just a little beyond what she can do alone, but within reach with some support, and let her enjoy it, I’m following Vygotsky’s zone of proximal development and the scaffolding built on it.
Same room. Same day. Different child. Different theory.
In my own classroom, I reach for different theories for different children.
There was a youngest child whose older siblings always jumped in to help first. At home, he’d shout “I can’t!” and give up. Watching him, I thought of Bandura’s social learning theory: watching someone do something is not the same as doing it yourself. I wrote about him in Your Youngest Isn’t Giving Up — He’s Never Had a Turn.
And there was a child standing at the fence. At first, I only saw a child looking out. But after I came across Malaguzzi’s The Hundred Languages of Children, I started looking past that fence from his height instead. I wanted to know what he was actually seeing. That story is in Amy, who Part 1: The boy at the Fence.
Some children needed Bandura. Some needed Malaguzzi. I’m the same teacher, but the map I unfold depends on the child.
What it means to have a reason
When I put a reason inside my activity, and walk toward a child knowing why, it means three things.
- I am ready to teach.
- I have actually watched this child.
- And when I act on what I’ve seen, I can move with strength and trust.
This matters for a simple reason: what I do affects a child’s development. Even if that effect is small, if it was a good one, then that child’s day meant something, and so did their learning.
And then the question changes.
Not “Can I… try this?”
But “I’m going to try this, because…”
We don’t need to worship theory. But we can never deny that we need it.
Theory first, or just try?
It’s a question every busy teacher has asked at least once. Do I need to know the theory before I start, or should I just jump in?
Here’s my answer. You don’t need the theory first. But you can’t finish without it.
Think back to the mirrors. I didn’t bring them in because I knew the theory. I brought them in because I watched a baby stare at a mirror and wanted to try something. The why arrived later, in one sentence from my mentor. Some theories I knew at the time. Others I only found when I looked back.
This is exactly what we already do every fortnight in our programming. We observe, plan, act and reflect. The EYLF describes this as a cycle (AGDE, 2022), and a cycle has no fixed starting point. You can start from what you see, or from something you try. And theory doesn’t only light the way when you plan. Sometimes it finds you when you reflect.
So the order matters less than you’d think. What matters is that when you come round to the end of the cycle, you’re holding a why. That’s what lets you start the next round from a little further along.
When theory held me steady: the toilet story
While writing this, one story kept coming back to me: my toilet training series, Wee First, Poo Later.
Back then, a colleague and I disagreed. Should children learn wees and poos together, or build confidence with wees first and take poos slowly? If my approach had been “just a feeling,” I would have backed down quickly. But I watched the children closely, thought about Erikson’s stage of autonomy versus shame and doubt, and about building small successes one step at a time, and my choice had a reason. That reason let me stay steady beside the children, and explain to families why we were doing it this way.
Looking back, that’s exactly what this post is about. Theory doesn’t hand you the answer. But it lets you explain why you’re walking the path you’ve chosen.
>> Read the full toilet story here: Wee First, Poo Later Intro / Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3
Coming next
Once you know your reason, it’s time to try. In Part 2, I’ll share what happens when you first carry a theory into the classroom, and about the days it didn’t go the way the books said.
Reference
Australian Government Department of Education [AGDE]. (2022). Belonging, being and becoming: The Early Years Learning Framework for Australia (V2.0). Australian Government Department of Education for the Ministerial Council.