The Most Unexpected Teacher
I’ve spent my entire life in education—raising three boys (many of those years as a single mom), teaching in classrooms, supporting future teachers, and now working with educators across the country. But lately, some of my most profound lessons have come from a new teacher in my life: my three-year-old granddaughter.
Her name is Collins. We only get to see her a couple times a month, but from the moment she steps in the door, she remembers everything.
She heads straight for Grandpa’s shoes—slipping them on with a giggle—and always asks to make “Grandpa cookies,” something we did once that instantly became a tradition. She never forgets the homemade whipped cream in the fridge.
“I need cream,” she says, and I smile because I know exactly what she means.
A Natural Curiosity
What amazes me most is how much she wonders.
We were swinging the other day, and she began to spin. I casually said, “Oh no—you’re spinning,” and she stopped and asked with complete sincerity:
“How did that happen?”
She wasn’t afraid. She didn’t need an answer right away. She just wanted to wonder.
Every time we walk down the pathway to the gazebo in our backyard (which we call “downstairs”), she insists:
“I’ll go this way, and you go that way.”
It’s always the same—and yet I marvel at how she understands “this” and “that.” Where did that come from? How did she learn it?
We were making cookies, and I turned to switch off the mixer. She held a cup of flour in her tiny hands… and took a big bite.
No hesitation. Just curiosity.
What does flour taste like?
She needed to know for herself.
When We Lose Our Willingness to Try
I keep thinking about something I heard years ago in a math workshop led by Jerry Mortensen. He told a story about writing a complex algebra problem on the board and asking students of different ages to try and solve it.
When he asked a group of kindergartners, every single hand went up. They didn’t know how to solve it—but they wanted to try.
They were curious.
They believed they could.
But as the students got older, fewer hands went up. By high school—where students had the skills—very few were even willing to attempt it.
So what happens between kindergarten and high school?
Is it something we’re unintentionally doing in our classrooms—or even in our culture—that causes children to stop asking, stop risking, stop wondering?
Slowing Down Enough to See
These moments with Collins have opened my eyes in a way I didn’t expect.
I raised three boys.
I have five grandchildren.
But for so many years, I was in the middle of doing life—teaching, parenting, caregiving. I didn’t always take the time to pause and notice all the little wonders happening right in front of me.
Now, with Collins, I have time to sit on the floor and build block towers,
time to notice the way she says this and that with such certainty,
time to make cookies not just as a treat—but as a memory.
And that makes me think about all of my grandchildren.
About how fast childhood moves.
About how often we trade noticing for surviving.
I didn’t get to slow down and watch them grow in quite the same way—not because I didn’t love them deeply, but because I was stretched thin. I still had a son at home, was working full time, and was caring for my Mom who was suffering with Alzheimer’s. Again – I was “doing” life instead of “living” life.
I cherish each of my grandchildren and the memories we’ve made, but I often wish I had paid more attention to the small things:
The way they learned.
The way they explored.
The way they wondered.
What I Want My Boys to Know
I often tell my sons—two who are now dads themselves—to enjoy the moments they have with their kids. To really see them.
People used to tell me the same thing, but I was always trying to hold everything together. And then, one day, your children are grown—off doing their own life—and you wonder where all the little moments went.
Watching my boys now, I sometimes worry they’ll look back and wish they had taken the time to just sit and watch.
To marvel at the wonder of it all.
The Wisdom of Wonder
I don’t have a neat conclusion.
But as I sit on the swing next to Collins or hand her a spoonful of cookie dough, I find myself thinking less about answers and more about questions
About curiosity.
About memory.
About language.
About the tiny moments that shape who we are.
And I wonder—how do we protect that sense of wonder as children grow?
Because maybe the most powerful lesson a 3-year-old can teach us is this:
The magic of learning starts not with knowing, but with wondering.
