The Person Standing in the Middle of the Room

A week ago, during a tour, I was talking with a mom about another childcare provider near me who describes her program as bringing back a “90s childhood.”

And how it made me think…if I had to describe the era of childhood that exists at Muddy River, what would it be?

I don’t think it’s really an era at all.

I think it’s the kind of childhood where children were simply part of the work of living.

They played on the kitchen floor while someone cooked. They were nearby while laundry was folded. They watched things get cleaned and put back together. They carried things. They helped and listened to conversations and stories while their hands were busy with something else.

There wasn’t this separation between the children’s activities and everything required to make a home and a life run.

They were just in it.

And that feels very much like what happens here.

I always joke that there aren’t any fairies who fly into Muddy River after everyone leaves and cleans everything up. The children see the work. Sometimes they help me. Sometimes they sit on the floor at my feet and play while I do it.

And almost always, somewhere in the middle of all of that, I’m singing or telling them a story.

Which brings me to tonight.

A parent sent me a message that her son had a friend over. His friend asked whether he liked his school. He said yes.

She asked if his teacher was nice.

He said yes, “and she sings to us and has a nice voice.”

And then when his friend was telling him about her school, he apparently told her that he wasn’t going there because he was just going to stay at his school forever. His mom said she didn’t have the heart to tell him that he only has another year here.

Neither do I.

There was something about reading, “she sings to us,” while looking at this pictures of the children sitting on my kitchen floor while I was cooking that brought me right back to that conversation about what kind of childhood I’m creating here.

Because that’s it.

They’re playing Duplos while I make lunch a few feet away.

We’re talking.

I’m probably singing.

Someone is showing me what they made.

Someone else is telling me a story.

I’m doing the work that has to happen, and they’re doing the incredibly important work of being children right in the middle of it.

And then today, at pickup, I had another conversation that somehow connected all of these thoughts for me.

One of our newer children reminds me so much of a child who moved away from Muddy River about a year ago. I was telling mom, whose son was around the same age as the little girl who moved, that sometimes I look at her son and it makes me wonder about that little girl. What is she interested in? What parts of her have changed?

And I started telling her about that child’s final day here.

We were standing in my backyard and her dad said something I have never forgotten.

He told me that it hurt his heart knowing that they would never forget me, but their daughter would. She was so little when she was here.

And today, as I retold that story, this mom said something along the lines of, but I don’t think they completely forget.

Maybe they don’t remember you.

Maybe they don’t remember the house.

Maybe they don’t remember the pond or the backyard or sitting on the kitchen floor.

But there is something that remains.

And I wholeheartedly believe that.

Because when we are caring for very young children, we are helping build a foundation they may never consciously remember being built.

We are helping build their understanding of relationships.

Of safety.

Of belonging.

Of what it feels like when an adult delights in your presence.

Of what it feels like to have someone listen to you.

Of what it feels like when you make a mistake and the relationship remains intact.

Of what it feels like to exist in a space without constantly being hurried away from the real work of life.

Those things absolutely become part of them.

They may someday have absolutely no idea where they came from and that’s okay.

Years ago I was talking with one of the very first families ever of muddy River about programs and environments and all the things people can see from the outside, and she basically said:

Someone could take everything you’ve created. They could buy the same things. They could create the same spaces. But they can never put you in the middle of their room.

At the time, I understood what she meant.

I think I understand it much more deeply now.

Because I have spent years thinking about environments. Materials matter to me. The way a room feels matters to me. Beautiful books and open-ended materials and good food and thoughtful experiences…all of it matters.

But none of those things are the heart of this place.

The nervous system of the adult standing in the middle of the room is.

You could empty the shelves.

You could take away every carefully chosen material.

You could put a basket of Duplos on my kitchen floor while I make lunch, and somehow an entire childhood could still be happening here.

Because children don’t experience a childhood as a collection of materials and activities.

They experience it through people.

Through the voice singing next to them while they play.

Through the adult who lets them be nearby while the work gets done.

Through a thousand tiny moments that are so ordinary nobody realizes while they’re happening that they may be laying down something that lasts a lifetime.

Maybe someday he won’t remember exactly what songs I sang.

Maybe that little girl won’t remember me standing with her in my backyard.

Maybe most of these children won’t remember these mornings on my kitchen floor at all.

But I hope somewhere deep down there remains this feeling:

I was safe.

I belonged.

I was wanted.

Someone was happy I was there.

And maybe, sometimes, they’ll even remember that she sang to us. 🤎