What Can We Do?

I have been paying attention to something that happens every day in my class.

There are many everyday situations in which the first thing they do is come and tell me:

“Maria, I don’t have a painting tunic.”

Today, they don’t even tell me.

If someone is not painting at the moment, they simply ask a friend if they can borrow their tunic.

Solutions begin to appear, solutions that once required an adult.

Something similar happened with something as simple as finding a place to sit.

For a long time, we had a problem during circle time. Everyone wanted to sit next to me.

Until one day, one of the children came up with an idea.

He took two of our calling sticks, the ones we use to choose who participates, who comes to the front, or to make sure everybody gets a turn, and suggested that those two friends should sit next to me.

During all three circle times that day, those two places were theirs.

And they added one more rule: the same name could not be chosen twice in the same week.

I agreed.

The solution had been theirs.

A few days ago, we were also playing a team game. There were seven boys and seven girls, and everybody had a turn.

At one point, one of the girls had to leave early.

One of the boys looked around and said:

—What now? We’re missing a girl. We can’t keep playing.

—What can we do? —I asked.

Someone immediately answered:

—One of the girls will have to play twice.

Problem solved.

I could have decided how to continue the game.

But they could do it too.

And when we give them the chance to find their own solutions, they begin to see that they can.

A few days ago, something also happened with one of the girls.

She dropped her water bottle and water spilled everywhere.

Instead of coming straight to me, she went to the bathroom and got lots of paper towels to clean it up.

When she came to tell me what she had done, my first reaction was to think that I would have found a different solution.

But then I thought about something that was much more important to me.

She had seen a problem and had tried to solve it before coming to me for help.

And that is something I want to teach them.

Because supporting them does not mean doing everything for them.

Sometimes it means asking a question and waiting.

Sometimes it means staying close.

Sometimes it means helping them think.

And sometimes it simply means trusting them.

The same thing happens with conflicts.

When two children have a problem, I try not to rush to decide who was right and who was wrong.

First, we stop and breathe.

Because when we are very angry, our bodies are activated too, and it is difficult to think clearly.

And then we go back to the question:

What are we going to do?

Today, while we were cleaning up before going home, two children had a problem.

Without me saying anything else, they stood facing each other, with their hands on each other’s shoulders, just as we have practiced so many times.

I let them talk.

A few minutes later, they looked at me and said:

“We talked about it, we said sorry, and now we are friends again.”

They had worked it out.

It really got to me.

Because in that moment I could see something that really matters.

They had found their own way of solving conflicts.

They were able to stop, look each other in the eye, talk, listen, and find their way back to one another.

And afterwards, they felt good.

I think autonomy begins this way.

With small decisions.

Learning to look for an answer before asking for help.

Turning to a friend when they need support.

Thinking about what to do when something changes.

Daring to suggest a solution.

Learning to pause before reacting.

And little by little, these small opportunities build something bigger.

The security of knowing that I can.

The possibility of asking for help when I need it.

The ability to think, decide, and take responsibility.

And also, learning to trust others.

Because a classroom is not simply a group of children with an adult guiding them.

It is a group where children learn to care for one another, support one another, and work together to solve whatever comes their way.

And perhaps this is one of the most beautiful things about teaching:

being there, supporting, asking, waiting...

and one day discovering that they no longer need you to tell them what to do.

Because they are already asking themselves:

What can we do?