20/05/2026
Last week I was fixing the bench outside when one of our beautiful little girls came to help me.
She struggles to go into class sometimes, mostly she's just not ready and the distractions around her keep her away.
She is looking for connection, involvement and to be seen. When she gets that, her nervous system slows down a bit and she is more able to learn.
I know this. So I encourage her to help me. She's hammering in the staples I have put into the frabric through to the wood. She wants to use the staple gun but I don't think she's ready for that yet. She doesn't have enough ability to listen yet, so safety for her is a priority for us. But I give her the big heavy hammer. She hits my thumbs a few times. It's not too sore. She says sorry each time, and tries a bit harder to get control with her tiny hands.
An au pair of another child walks passed on her way out and gets involved because she can't help herself. Adults often struggle with impulse control and want to get children into class and behind the desk where they belong.
She asks the child to go to class and almost reaches down to hold her shoulders and steer her in the direction she feels is right. I can almost hear her voice later telling her friends how children aren't in class, "Tut, tut, unacceptable."
I gently talk to the au pair through the child.
"You're enjoying being with me and helping to fix rhe bench. When you're done with the hammer and feel ready to learn, I can help you to join your friends in class. Are you happy with that?"
The child nods, all too content to still be hammering staples, and my thumb by accident. She looks up each time to feel my reaction.
"Ow, that was sore."
"Sorry," she says. Her big brown doe eyes a little worried. I can't see her sympathy, remorse and fear.
I am careful to smile and say, "Don't worry. I can move my thumb out of the way. You are doing a great job of learning. Thank you for saying sorry." Repair work is so important to model for children.
She smiles and keeps going. The au pair is visibly worried that the child is not going to class.
This time I talk to the au pair. "She'll be ready in a moment. Right now she is finding her way. She needs some connection before she can learn."
This child has a PDA diagnosis. Our approach is gentle kindness.
Before the au pair disappears around the corner, I take up the little girls hand. "You did a wonderful job of helping me. Look at how great the bench looks. We did that."
I smile softly, "Are you ready for class now?"
She walks with me, her pace has a lightness to it.
One of the biggest mistakes we make around struggling children is believing that physical presence automatically equals learning.
It doesn’t.
A child can sit in a classroom every single day while their nervous system is overwhelmed, shut down, masking, panicking or simply trying to survive the environment around them.
And the longer that distress is ignored, the bigger the cost often becomes.
This isn’t about “giving up” on education.
It’s about understanding that regulation, safety and connection are not rewards that come after learning.
They are the foundation that learning is built on.
So many families are being blamed for difficulties that started long before attendance dropped.
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