Post #2 in a month-long project, described here.

If dictation is such a powerful tool–which I’m hoping to convince you that it is–why don’t more families do it? Why is it simply mentioned in passing in books about kids and writing?

One reason. I’ll bet you can figure it out.

It’s not a technique used much in schools.

Why?

They can’t pull it off.

Sometimes you’ll hear of kindergarten and first grade classrooms in which volunteers write down what kids want to say. But that sort of help is phased out quickly because in classrooms–traditional ones anyway–kids need to know how to write. That ability to write is how a teacher keeps up with so many kids, and what they’re all thinking and learning.

Learning to write is hard. I believe that it’s one of the hardest childhood tasks that kids take on. If you haven’t read my post Take Five Minutes and Try This, I hope you’ll check it out. And find five minutes to try the exercise. It will help you understand how ridiculously challenging it is to be a fledgling writer.

In the workshops mentioned in that post, when participants wrote the second time, they wrote with what educators would call fluency. They wrote without thinking much about what their hands were doing, or how the letters should be formed, or how to spell each word. For the most part, they could concentrate on their thoughts rather than the task of transcribing those thoughts to the page.

Young, developing writers don’t yet have this fluency. They’re like the participants in the first part of the exercise: putting their focus on each letter, and then the letter that comes next. While more fluent kids are able to hold an entire sentence in their minds and work toward the end of it, less fluent kids lose track of where they are as they struggle to remember if the belly of a D faces right or left, or to wonder why when looks funny when they spell it oen. (And if that spelling–a favorite of my oldest at six–looks odd to you too, say the word aloud to understand where it comes from.)

Developing fluency takes years. Just as it takes years for a child to learn to speak in full sentences, in a mostly conventional way, to go from saying ba ba ba to why can’t I have my dessert first? Writing is even more complicated. There’s the formation of those letters to consider, and how to combine those letters to form words, and how to string those words together into sentences that make sense. Most likely it will take three, or four, or five years–or more–before a child can write without much thought to those details, and focus on the ideas he or she hopes to transcribe to the page.

With talking, we allow children that babbling ba ba ba time. We let their speech develop naturally—some kids say their first words at ten months, others at eighteen. They move from single words to simple sentences when they’re ready.  But with writing, our society seems pressed to force the process along. As soon as kids hit the first grade, we push the responsibility of writing at them like it’s a basket of dirty laundry and a box of detergent, expecting them to take over the task, saying in effect, it’s your job now, kid.

And as homeschoolers, if we aren’t pushing our kids to write at six, we’re often worrying about why they aren’t writing.

I’d like to suggest a different model.

What if, instead of expecting our kids to write at six, we let their writing develop more slowly, more organically, like we did when they learned to talk? It’s likely that their writing might first consist of a word or two labeling a drawing, or a sign made for a lemonade stand, or a name attached to a gift. It might look like this.

And as their writing is developing naturally, we can take dictation from them. Why?

  • Dictation allows them to express themselves freely, without being limited by their mechanical writing skills.
  • Dictation lets them convey higher-level ideas, which they may not be capable of writing on their own.
  • Dictation encourages longer, more complicated sentences and words, which are likely to get lost when a fledgling writer transcribes on his or her own.
  • Dictated writing allows a child to share his or her written expression with others. It helps kids begin to see the value of capturing one’s words on a page.
  • The process of seeing their words transcribed allows kids to painlessly pick up on writing mechanics: spelling, grammar, punctuation. Learning these skills in the context of their own writing makes those skills pertinent, valuable and interesting to a child. (Rather than boring as a book of math drills.)
  • Conversations about content that occur while kids are dictating help them begin to think like writers.
  • Young children tend to be expressive, creative speakers. They haven’t developed self-consciousness when they speak. Dictation allows them to capture that voice, and apply it to their written expression. On the other hand, when kids must write on their own, taking years to develop written fluency, the naturally expressive voice of childhood has often disappeared by the time they’ve developed the skill to transcribe it.
  • Time spent taking dictation is time in which a parent is immersed in the ideas of the child. It can be a joyful parent-child experience.
  • Dictation allows a child to develop a voice as a writer. This, I will argue, is the most important writing skill we can pass along to our children. The mechanics of writing get mastered over time–they do–but some kids never develop a written voice, a confidence and personal style on the page. I hope to convince you that mechanics should be a secondary part of the act of writing, and to give you faith that those mechanics will develop in time. I hope to help you make nurturing your child’s written voice the goal of his or her writing education.

I’ll elaborate on all of these points in upcoming posts, but I wanted to give a road map of where we’re headed. Next stop: how to begin taking dictation.

A note to readers: I’ve talked to many of you, via comments left here, or via email, or in person, about positive experiences with taking dictation from your child. I hope you’ll share your experiences in the comments! And to those of you for whom taking dictation hasn’t been effective, there will be opportunities to share here as well. Comment on!

Welcome to a new, month-long project here on the Wonder Farm! Come on in, and find a seat! For the month of September, I’m planning to focus my posts on a single topic: taking dictation from kids. I’ll be posting much more often than my typical once-a-week dispatches. I’m hoping that some of you will join me, try some of these ideas out with your own kids, and share what you discover. Please, let’s chat!

What is dictation?

Dictation, to me, is simply writing down something that your child wants to have written down. It could be a story, but it could just as easily be a theory about life on Mars, or a description of a fairy house just built, or the words of a ditty that you catch him singing as he eats his toast. It’s an easy practice, but there are ways to make it work smoothly, and I hope to discuss those here.

What’s the big deal about dictation?

This is what I hope to crack open and explore this month. I believe that taking dictation from kids is a powerful, but largely underused tool for helping kids develop their voices as writers. It isn’t widely used in schools, simply because that isn’t feasible, but I think it has great potential for homeschooling families. And it’s really for kids of all ages: from those just beginning to talk to older teenagers who might be struggling to express something in writing. It’s also a technique that kids who go to school can do with their parents at home.

Why are you doing this?

  • Mostly because I think these ideas might be helpful to parents, and I want to share them.
  • I’d love to have other families test these ideas out, so we can all get a better sense of what works and what doesn’t. I’d like to build a community of writing families here on the Wonder Farm.
  • You may remember the William Zinnser quote I posted about a few weeks back, from Writing to Learn: ”I thought of how often as a writer I had made clear to myself some subject I had previously known nothing about by just putting once sentence after another–by reasoning my way in sequential steps to its meaning. I thought of how often the act of writing even the simplest document–a letter for instance–had clarified my half-formed ideas.” I’m hoping that lingering with this topic for a month, and responding to those of you who contribute will clarify my own ideas about dictation. Which will help me write that book on homeschooling and writing that I’m plugging away at.
  • I’ve just left my oldest child at college for the first time, 3,000 miles away, and my middle child  has stopped homeschooling for the first time in her life, and started high school. As you might imagine, I could use a big project right now.

How do we start?

I recommend that at first you simply read along here, and ponder the ideas a bit. I don’t want to get you all fired up about dictation, and have you pounce on your child with your New Big Idea! Anyone who has homeschooled for any length of time has probably discovered this: the more excited you are about a notion, the more leery your child is likely to become. (Perhaps my kids have ultra-developed sensors to keep me at bay because I’m always buzzing with some crazy idea, but I think this is a fairly universal theorem.) One of the most important things to remember about taking dictation is that you want to do it because your child wants to–not because you think it’s a good idea.

But how will my child decide to dictate, when I’m the one reading here?

That, my friends, will be the topic of an upcoming post. I do hope you’ll come back!

How do I join in the project?

There are several ways you can participate. You can simply read along, and try out ideas that might work for your child. You can leave a comment–and I’d love it if you would–to tell how something worked, or didn’t work. You can ask questions of me, or of other readers, in the comment section as well. There will be opportunities to share writing which your child has dictated, if your child is agreeable. And if you write about dictation on your own blog, you can leave a link to your post in the comments, so readers can find you.

Please spread the word about The Dictation Project: on your own blog, with your friends, with your homeschooling communities. The more families we can get to join in, the richer the exploration of this topic will be.

Coming up tomorrow: thoughts on why taking dictation from kids can be such a powerful tool.

So what do you think? Any of you interested in joining along, if your child is willing?

Because watching my Lulu go off to school in my last post wasn’t enough…

This weekend Chris and I brought H to NYU.

I started writing a maudlin post with lots of wrenching details like the sight of H’s boxers intermingled with the family laundry for the last time, and the sorrow of shopping at Whole Foods without buying his peanut butter Clif bars. But it was just too much. Too personal, too close.

I will say this. That last hug is as hard as you imagine it will be. But it helps when you start to let go, and he just keeps holding on. I can still feel his arms around me, squeezing me back. I’m hanging on to that.

It’s also no slight solace that technology makes the world so much smaller these days. My boy may be 3,000 miles away, but we’ve talked, texted and emailed. This afternoon I reminded him to eat his fruits and veggies.

His dorm is on 10th and Broadway in New York City. Think of that! He has a world of excitement waiting right outside his elevator door.  I’m hanging on to that too.

For now, I try not to cry every time I walk past his empty bedroom. I told Mr. T to expect extra hugs from me because I can’t give them to H. And I’m trying to busy myself with other projects.

I’ve got a big one planned. Right here! Tomorrow! A big ol’ month-long project that requires audience participation. So come on back, my friends, and keep me from drowning in my own salty puddle of tears. I know you’re good for that.

Seems like just yesterday I was writing part 1, when H decided to go to high school as a junior, after homeschooling all his life.

This time it’s Lulu. She’s starting at the same school, as a freshman. (While her brother, meanwhile, has graduated, and is off to college.)

It wasn’t a sudden decision. Lulu decided to do this a year ago, and has been planning and readying since.

It’s hard to have your kid leave a life of homeschooling, and choose school. Mr T and I will miss having Lulu around: I’ll miss her conversation throughout the day, and her cooking; Mr T will surely miss the playmate that sneaks out of the teenage girl from time to time. And it’s hard to see her leave the homeschooling support group that we’ve been part of since she was two, and her dearest friends.

I know that some homeschoolers disapprove of school, and I get a flicker of that from a few friends in our support group. But here’s the thing: Remember my last post, about following the kid? That’s what I’ve been doing with all three of my kids from the beginning. (Although, in all honesty, I’ve gotten better at it over time, as the older two taught me how well it works.) And if you follow your kids, two things happen. First, you raise kids who know themselves and have a clear sense of how they learn best.

Second, you learn to trust their wisdom.

Both H and Lulu had clear and eloquent reasons for wanting to go to school. They’d spent a lifetime choosing how they wanted to learn, and choosing school was simply the choice that seemed right at a certain point. Both had to leave behind a very safe, tight circle of wonderful friends, to do something that none of their friends had chosen for themselves. Both times, their bravery and self-determination have amazed me.

Following them hasn’t taken a leap of faith on my part. They’ve been showing me for years how wise they are about knowing how they want to learn. They’ve been assured and confident and stubborn and sometimes loud and belligerent. And as challenging as that’s been at times, they have a pretty good record of demanding the options that have ultimately been right for them. They’ve convinced me.

Yesterday, on Lulu’s second day of school, she marched into the auditions for the school musical without knowing a soul and sang. I am so proud of her. And I have full faith that she’s made the right decision.

This happens often. I’ll be chatting with a new homeschooler, and this person will ask what we do each day. I’ll explain that we aren’t unschoolers, that we have a habit of doing something together most days, but that I try to follow my kids and their interests.

At this point the fellow chatter usually nods, but often I can see little question marks scroll over his or her eyes. You follow your kids? What does that mean, exactly?

This is the point in the conversation when I try to give examples. Just the other day, in fact, Mr. T had me chasing him down one of his never-ending trails. I thought I’d share it here, so the next time I talk to a new homeschooler and the question marks scroll, I’ll know just the specific story to tell.

Anyway, T was doing a logic puzzle in National Geographic Kids. (My kids have all loved the magazine when they were young, although I hate the ads and the movie and video game tie-ins. If you must know.) He asked for my help. It was a full-page, detailed drawing of a couple dozen kids eating ice cream in a parlor. There were several clues for finding a specific kid, such as the person is not wearing plaid. By process of elimination, you find the sought-after kid and solve the puzzle. I told Mr. T that this sort of puzzle is called a logic puzzle.

“I love logic puzzles! What’s someone who does logic for a job called?”

Here we go, folks. Did you catch that? He’s waiting there at the metaphorical trailhead, excited. Luckily I was listening, and not distracted by the tink of a new email or some enticing just-arrived sale catalogue, as I’m sure I am plenty often when T is ready to take off. But if you want to follow your kids, you have to be there for the start of the hike.

“I think they’re called logicians.” I said, and then–this is key–I tried to say the next line as casually as possible, “You know, you can make up logic puzzles. We could make them for each other.”

If I’d said that last line too enthusiastically, Mr. T might have shut down the whole trek right then and there. A bit of wisdom, learned from my kids: There’s nothing more dampening to a new idea than to have your mother jump in and run off with it.

Now, as we had this conversation, I was putting dinner on the table, so we didn’t have time to pursue the idea further right then. But since he’d seemed so interested, the next morning I brought it up again. I told him that I remembered some logic activities in a book–Family Mathin which kids write “bean recipes”, using real beans to work out problems that are solvable.

“Beans! Why would I want to do logic problems with beans?”

I was about to tell him that we could just use the book for ideas, when he busted out with this: ”We could use my guys!”

His guys. Some of you may remember Mr. T’s guys from a post long back called When Your Kid Wants Almost Nothing For Christmas. His guys are a motley collection of small plastic creatures. Many are Digimon figures, although T knows little about Digimon. Some are Gormiti figures, which we discovered in Europe, and seem to be an Italian version of Pokemon. T doesn’t care much for the backstory of these creatures; he invents his own names and his own stories. And he adores his guys: they’re one of the few toys he plays with, almost every day.

If a project revolves around his guys, I know Mr. T will be interested. So when he says something like, “We could use my guys!”, I pay attention.

We decided to each take a bunch of guys, and to secretly select a target guy to write clues about. We would each read each other’s clues, and try to find the secret creature.

Mr. T’s first set of rules was a bit vague.

His first clue was If it’s holding something. I asked whether a guy was holding something meant that it was the mystery creature, or wasn’t. T had meant that if it were holding something, it could be the creature. I asked how he could write the clues so they’d be easier to understand. He remembered how they were written in National Geographic Kids. “I’ll write them like that next time.” (Who knew that these logic puzzles would be a little lesson in writing clearly? Most excellent.)

Then he tried out my clues.

We had fun solving each other’s puzzles, so we each wrote another set of clues. “Let’s use more guys this time!” T enthused. Okay!

Note that his clues are more straightforward this time. He was especially excited about this clue: It does not have wings on it. He stumped me with that one. One of his guys–a wingless one–had a tiny bird emblem on his chest. With wings.

I was also charmed by this clue: It does not have any fire, or lightning, on it. Don’t you love the commas? You could argue that they aren’t necessary, but he’s playing with comma usage, and that excites me–language geek that I am.

We had a fine time writing clues for each other, and solving them. Much more fun than if I’d been suckered into playing Monopoly, and a thousand times more fun than him doing a math workbook page. Mr. T got some logic practice, some writing practice, some playing-with-guys time, and some playing-with-Mama time. And he was entirely engaged. All because I followed his lead.

That’s the kind of learning I love.

Have your kids led you down any trails lately?