Tag: kindergarten teacher

Foot dragging as resistance to lack of respect

~ Storykate ~ Leave a comment

Hey educators, let’s talk about foot dragging.

I have been reading an article by Andrew Yarrow, 2013, on civil disobedience: understanding resistance and value in childcare. I came across the term “foot-dragging” as one of the three distinct forms of everyday resistance the researcher observed being used by early childhood educators and teachers.

The key idea is that foot dragging is when we don’t want to do anything more than the absolute necessary minimum required to keep children safe, satisfy basic compliance, and get your salary.

Unfortunately, as an early childhood trainee, then an early childhood educator, teacher and trainer, I have seen all of these practices.

And instead of calling educators lazy, Andrew Yarrow, the researcher, talks about it as a form of resistance. Educators are resisting rather than simply complying with rules, or feeling discontent but powerless to act.

Let’s say, for example, documentation. Or the requirement to use gloves when you apply sunscreen to 27 children 500 times a day. Or documenting every body movement, or every gram of food a child ate, when it’s not actually required by law.

Educators do what is called “foot dragging”.

It’s a lack of enthusiasm and low energy. It’s a refusal to take that extra step, to go above and beyond.

And going above and beyond is something that early childhood teachers and educators have historically been famous for. We do this job out of love and commitment to early childhood education and to children in general.

But many educators in the study talk about how they lost their enthusiasm. They can’t be bothered anymore because they have been disrespected so many times.

Personally, I have been there as well.

Because when you are paid peanuts, sometimes you work for this bigger goal, right? You go above and beyond. You attend those opening days, you are super diligent, you do your documentation, you give that extra bit of effort.

It’s common for beginning educators and teachers as well.

But eventually, you can start to feel disrespected, under surveillance, under the regulatory gaze, constantly being investigated, or simply not trusted.

And poor wages, poor working conditions and disrespect can lead to a loss of enthusiasm and energy.

So educators start saying things like, “Oh well, they don’t pay me for that.”

Or, “We’re only paid to do this. I’m not going any further.”

And sometimes, this can be quite damaging.

But according to this researcher, Andrew Yarrow, it’s something we shouldn’t simply judge.

Foot dragging 🦶 can actually be a form of resistance to the disrespect and lack of recognition experienced by our profession.

On the surface, it looks like an individual failure. A lazy person. Someone who lacks commitment.

And sometimes, it probably is.

But according to a feminist materialist perspective, it can also be understood as one of the most honest and rational responses to systemic exploitation experienced by predominantly female workers.

So I wonder what you think about dragging your feet.

Do you ever do that?

Do you ever feel so demotivated and stressed that you think, “I’m not paid for doing more than I’m paid for”?

What’s your take on this?

I’d love to know.

Storykate

Children’s theories: how to use them for planning?

~ Storykate ~ Leave a comment

Have you ever heard a child say something that made you stop and think, “Wait a minute. I’ve never thought about it that way”?

Today I wanted to talk about theories, or child theories.

Outcome 4.2 talks about problem-solving, inquiry, experimentation, hypothesising, researching and investigating. One of the educator strategies is to help and encourage children to express or make visible their ideas and theories to others.

Wait a minute. But what theories are we talking about?

The word “theories” appears in the educator strategy column in the EYLF. The everyday meaning of theory is an established explanation backed by evidence. It’s a set of ideas, and it’s usually quite structured.

You probably know about Piaget’s theory, Vygotsky’s sociocultural theory, post-humanist theory and many others.

But in the Reggio Emilia approach, we talk about children’s theories. This goes back to Loris Malaguzzi’s vision of children as capable and competent.

Children have their own theories, or explanations, that they build to make sense of the world.

Malaguzzi described the child as competent, capable, creative and rich, as opposed to the idea of the child as an empty vessel proposed earlier by John Locke and followed by the formal education system.

Carla Rinaldi talked about three roles: the child as a protagonist of their own learning, the child as a collaborator working with other children and with educators, and the child as a communicator who uses the hundred languages, or many different expressive media.

A child’s theory, in Reggio terms, is provisional. It is a way of making sense of something. It is an explanation.

For example, recently I visited a nature-based preschool and overheard the following conversation between two boys. They were talking about mosquitoes, and they saw animal droppings on the ground. One child asked:

“Do mosquitoes poo?”

This really stopped me in my tracks because I had never really thought about it.

And children really are quite clever. They offer us a fresh perspective on many things that we have never even questioned or that we have simply taken for granted.

Theories are usually social. They build and develop through groups. Disagreement is normal, and disagreement can be productive.

Children’s theories drive planning in Reggio Emilia, and educators document them for projects, or progettazione, which is usually inquiry-based.

Listening for children’s theories is a very important interpretive act.

Going back to the mosquitoes, the children really didn’t know whether mosquitoes had a full digestive tract and whether they produced waste. So they made a hypothesis: maybe mosquitoes poo, or maybe they don’t.

That could potentially become a theory.

It will become a more developed theory when children say something like:

“Mosquitoes don’t poo because they only drink blood, and blood is a drink.”

Or:

“They do poo, but it’s too small to see.”

Now we have something that is becoming a theory.

But at this stage, it is still a very important part of the inquiry process. And I would definitely document it, which I did.

The thing with questions like this, or theories that can come out of them, is to resist the temptation to give the immediate answer.

As people in Reggio Emilia say, handing the question back to children can start an inquiry and grow into a full-on project.

For example, children found a dead snake on the ground.

Maxim said, “I never die.”

James agreed.

“And I also never die because we are kids,” said Maxim.

Three things make this a theory.

There is a claim: “I never die.”

There is a question underneath it: What is life? What is death?

And there is a reason: “Because we are kids.”

This makes it a theory.

Two children are building a theory through their social interaction. They are exploring the concept of death, which is not an easy topic.

Maxim accepted that the snake is dead and will probably stay dead. All things die. Animals die. But kids are exempt.

And that is their theory.

Have you ever witnessed any unusual child theories?

Have you observed or noticed theories in practice?

I would really like to hear from you.👇🏻

Do not give up your thinking so easily…

~ Storykate ~ Leave a comment

Hey educator!

If you are currently studying for your Certificate III, Diploma, or Bachelor in Early Childhood Education and Care, Primary Education, or any other education field, there is something I want you to pay attention to.

In the age of AI, it can seem like we have a tool that is incredibly helpful.

However, it can also steal our ability to learn and think for ourselves.

We need to understand the research behind writing to learn.

Writing helps us learn when we use it not only to make notes, but also to ask questions and explain ideas to ourselves. For example, research on self-explanation, such as the work published in 1989, looked at the moments when learners stop understanding something. Self-explanation involves explaining what you have learned to yourself, and this process can help you identify where your understanding breaks down.

This is also where AI can be useful, and this is very important.

Before you even ask AI to explain something to you, such as Lev Vygotsky, you need to write down, jot down, or say out loud what you already know.

Start with your own thinking. Write what you know about scaffolding, ZPD, social learning , culture. Then use AI to help you identify gaps, ask better questions, challenge your thinking, or clarify something you don’t understand. That way, AI becomes a learning tool rather than a replacement for learning.

Kate – Storykate

Forager Pedagogy – well, that’s something new

~ Storykate ~ Leave a comment

Today I’ve learned about a new approach called forager pedagogy. This pedagogy is grounded in First Nations perspectives, which, as you know, are an important part of the EYLF and the Victorian Early Years Learning and Development Framework. Our core curriculum documents.

A foraging approach means you are someone who forages. Picking mushrooms, berries. Something very cultural for me. I grew up in the country, in the environment called tundra, in the Arctic North, and I foraged a lot. I used to walk on country. It’s something I keep enjoying, because for me it provides a lens of relaxing, of mindfulness, of being with myself while being deeply connected to something bigger than I am.

Walking is the easiest way to relax, to become more mindful, to feel grounded

So let’s talk about the theory behind it.

The core idea of foraging is to look for something. In literature, they call it look for traces of ghosts of what is now gone. Following marks, seeking out, paying attention. You shift perspective up and down, from the sky to the ground, far into the distance and then up close. Your eyes relax. Your gestures become more animal-like. You move your body the way other non-human animals do. You also recognise how you have become separated from all of it through boots and clothes. That gives you a sense of grounding, at least it does for me.

Adopting this lens matters if you’re looking to welcome more First Nations perspectives, country-based learning and play-based pedagogy into your practice. The EYLF now encourages us to do all of this.

Think about how you can use this pedagogy to create more presence, or refiguring presence, as they say in the research and in the book on children and nature. I really like the idea of relational kinship, which goes back to being with country and to First Nations perspectives, where country is a living entity, and where family, ancestors, lore and spiritual beliefs are all part of it. Lore here is something like law and regulations, or moral law. This way you become part of something bigger, and you provide reciprocal care. You look after country, and country looks after you.

You can also think of the forager lens as noticing ways of communication. Children are still acquiring language, so we can look at how plants, animals, mushrooms and mycelium communicate. What signals, what warnings, what conversations are happening?

One of the easiest things to do is walk. That gives you sensory attunement as well. When you’re tired, you can sit down and sit with country, or sit on a stump while you’re picking mushrooms, which is completely natural. While you do it, you can listen to the earth’s heartbeat. You can lie down and look at the sky, at the clouds, and feel the wind.

This is something I encourage you to start doing with children. And by yourself.

When a Child Says “I Don’t Like You”

~ Storykate ~ Leave a comment


A reflection for early childhood educators on trust, connection, and the moments that stay with you.

Some of the deepest lessons in early childhood come straight from the children, often the ones who are hardest to reach.

This is a story about one of them, and a single morning in Cranbourne that has stayed with me ever since. It taught me more about connection and the quiet weight educators carry than almost anything else in my career.

“I Don’t Like You. Go Away.”

His voice was sharp and his little face was set. He said , looking right at me.

I had been at the centre for about an hour, sitting in the background while I observed one of my pre-service educators with a small group of children. My job was to assess her teaching, the way she connected with the children and facilitated their play.

The little boy across from me, arms crossed. I had noticed him earlier on the edges of play, sitting a little apart from the others.
There was something uneasy about his presence. I sat on the floor near him, picked up a few plastic dinosaurs, and started to play, giving them voices and letting them stomp and chat. An open invitation, no pressure.

That was when he looked straight at me and said, “I don’t like you. Go away.”

I did not take it personally, of course. What I could see was a little boy for whom closeness felt risky, someone who may have learned that keeping people at a distance felt safer. Attachment theory gives me a lens for noticing this, a way of paying closer attention. It stops well short of letting me label a child I watched for an hour.

So I stayed where I was and kept playing, letting the dinosaurs roar. I said, gently, “I’m sorry you feel that way. I hope we can be friends. It’s safe to play with me.”

He stayed quiet at first. Then he watched. Little by little his posture shifted, his arms loosened, his eyes followed the dinosaurs, and after a while he reached out, took one, and joined in.

The Science of Building Trust

For the rest of my visit he stayed close, near me, watching, following. While I kept my focus on my student and her group, I could feel him settling beside me, minute by minute.

This is what the beginning of trust looks like. It builds slowly and quietly, in a child choosing to stay in the room, in a posture that softens, in a glance held a second longer, in a small hand reaching for a dinosaur. In early childhood, these small moments lay the ground for everything that follows: language, learning, connection, resilience. A child who feels safe can begin to learn, and we see it in the research on stress and the developing brain as clearly as we see it on the mat each day.

Then, as my visit came to an end, something unexpected happened. As I stood to leave, his small hands grabbed the fabric of my skirt and held on tight.


“Don’t go.”



His voice, so firm before, carried an edge of desperation now. The educator gently tried to coax him away and reassure him that I had to go. His little fingers only tightened, and for a moment I felt a lump rise in my throat.

What do you say to a child for whom a goodbye feels this big? I knelt to his level, met his eyes, and reached for the most comforting words I had. “We will see each other again. And the people who care for you are here for you.” I wanted him to feel held, right then.

He stood there as I walked to my car, his small figure framed by the doorway, watching and waiting. And as I drove out of Cranbourne, I started to cry.

What This Means for Early Childhood Educators

Some of the hardest parts of this work sit outside the teaching, the planning, and the frameworks. Sometimes the hardest part is holding children’s emotions and stories. It has been this way for me. That emotional labour, the weight of holding children whose stories we may never fully know, gets far too little airtime in our profession. Here is what that morning reinforced for me.

Rejection is communication. It is a type of behaviour. When a child says “go away,” they may be telling you that closeness feels risky right now. Meet it with steadiness and stay.

What children need is connection. Proximity, consistency and calm are what a child like this reaches for, and staying in the room, gently and without demands, is often the whole of it.

Small moments matter. A child picking up a dinosaur or giving you a look. In the slow building of trust, these are the milestones.

Educator wellbeing counts too. Walking away from a child who is clinging to you is genuinely hard. Naming that, and letting ourselves feel the grief of those goodbyes, is part of practice we can sustain.

A Final Thought

That little boy needed something simple that day. He needed someone who would stay, even as he asked them to go. So often it is the children who push the hardest who are reaching for connection the most. And it is the ordinary Tuesday morning, the dinosaurs, the floor, the patient waiting, that turns out to matter most.