I thought I was a good listener. I could watch Jackson stick a hose into the sandpit and stand back while he discovered that bending the end did not stop the water gushing out. I could observe a group of children feeding pretend ducks in their play, talk to their parents, learn that ducks come by their houses and the children feed them at home, and use that knowledge to extend the play. When I was observing, I was tuned in. I could see the learning happening.
But when I started teaching, something changed. A mentor observed me one day and gave me some honest feedback. She could see that I was interfering with children's play. She shared an article with me about recognising children's learning, and it contained an example that has stayed with me ever since.
A group of children had been playing together and were talking about a "honey machine." Their conversation was rich and full of imagination. When the teacher came over, she started asking open-ended questions: "Where does honey come from? Can you get honey from the shops?" The teacher thought she was extending their learning. But her questions had nothing to do with what the children were thinking about. They were not wondering where honey comes from. They were deep inside their honey machine world, and the teacher had pulled them out of it and into hers. The article called it hijacking, a hidden agenda dressed up as good teaching.
That was my light bulb moment. I recognised myself in that example. I had learnt the theory about getting down to the child's level, making eye contact, asking open-ended questions. But I realised that all of that could actually work against children if the response was not connected to what they were doing. I probably saw learning before, but now I started aligning my responses to what I noticed. I was writing ten learning stories a week because my observation skills had sharpened so much.
There was a child I struggled to connect with. When I greeted him or tried to talk to him, he would move away, saying "let's go from here" to his friends. Then one day, I observed him on a wooden platform, fixing a pretend lawnmower through his actions and words. His aunty, who was one of our teachers, told me he loved lawnmowers. His two friends had similar interests: one loved going to Mitre 10 with his uncle to look at machines, the other pulled things apart with his dad and sold the insides.
The next day I took him to the shed and asked if he wanted anything for his lawnmower. He chose a wooden push chair. When I came back outside later, his two friends had joined him. The three of them had hung a bag on the back of the push chair and filled it with cut grass. The play continued for days. They wanted a real lawnmower, so we found one that was not working. They were filling it with fuel and fixing it, collaborating, drawing on its shadow, cutting out pictures of machines.
The relationship with that child came not through my words, but through understanding what mattered to him. I listened to his play, I listened to his whānau, and I responded with resources that matched what I noticed. Sometimes you do not need to do anything other than observe, gently probe their thinking, and align your response to what you see.
But I have also seen how easily play gets stopped when teachers respond before they listen. A child once filled a rectangular container with water and began placing sheets of A4 paper on top. A teacher might quickly say "don't waste the paper." But when I asked the child what he was doing, it was a swimming pool cover. If you know what they are thinking, you can suggest newspaper instead. Without listening first, the play just stops. I have also seen children carrying a wooden tea set from inside to outside to continue their play, and being told to take it back. Their thinking does not change just because they crossed a doorway.
Carlina Rinaldi, from the Reggio Emilia approach, describes listening as something that goes far beyond hearing sound. It is listening with all of our senses: sight, touch, smell. It requires a suspension of judgement, an openness to what the child might be doing before we decide what we think they are doing. It needs time, time to be silent, to pause, and to listen to ourselves before we respond. Every child has a voice, whether they have words yet or not.
This is especially true for how we view tamariki. If we see children as capable, we look at a child standing on a bike seat and we hear "I want to see over the fence." We make the area safe while allowing the exploration. If we see children as fragile, we hear "danger" and we shut it down. The child's intention is never heard.
Children also express their voice through art. A child at one of our centres painted with brush strokes going up and down like painting a wall. His father was a painter. You would not know that unless you watched closely. Listening with your eyes is just as important as listening with your ears.
The environment can also get in the way. Music playing too loudly takes over spaces where children are engaged in something quiet. When experiences are adult-led and children are not able to explore materials in their own way, their voice is not being heard. Being entertained is not the same as genuinely playing.
With infants who do not yet have words, listening happens through care moments. Pennie Brownlee's work in Dance with Me in the Heart describes this beautifully. Tell the baby what is going to happen before it happens. The baby will learn your cues, begin to anticipate, and the two of you will begin to dance together. Speak the baby's name before you begin. It lets them know you are there and something is about to happen, and it keeps you present too.
Care moments done with respect and full attention cement the relationship. A nappy change, feeding, settling to sleep: these are not tasks to rush through to get back to the "real work." They are the real work. When the emotional tank is full, the baby will go and play and explore with confidence.
At one of our centres, a teacher was changing a new baby's nappy. The baby was upset and cried. Instead of rushing, the teacher paused, acknowledged the baby's feelings, talked to her, let her hold her finger, and gently caressed her face. The baby slowly relaxed, and by the end the cries had been replaced with a smile. This was only the second nappy change. The first time, the baby had protested loudly. That shift from distress to trust happened because the teacher listened to the baby's body and responded with patience and care.
Another teacher, settling a baby to sleep, read the cues: extra cuddly after morning tea, rubbing his eyes. She gathered his comfort items, found a calm spot outside on the step in the cool breeze, held him, sang softly, and rocked him gently. His mum had warned that sleep could be tricky. But the baby fell asleep in minutes because he felt safe.
With toddlers, listening means understanding their developmental drive for independence and autonomy. They want to do things themselves, make their own choices, and exercise their will. Pennie Brownlee calls it "power dancing." The way we handle this decides the relationship template: domination or partnership.
My granddaughter, who is two, was painting recently with four colours. She took all four brushes and painted with them together. When she finished, I put each brush back in its matching colour jar. She immediately took all four out again. I thought "oh no" but said nothing. This time, she put each brush back in the right jar herself. If I had stopped her the first time, I never would have seen what she was capable of. Listening to a toddler often means being patient enough to let them show you.
I want to be honest about how this works in a real centre with real ratios. We do not have the luxury of sitting with one small group all morning. What we do is scan the environment. You look across the outdoor area and you notice where the deep engagement is happening and where children might need closer attention. One teacher moves to observe the engaged group while the other keeps an eye on the wider environment. It takes awareness and teamwork. Active listening is not about having perfect conditions. It is about making the most of the moments you have.
When I think about what has made the biggest difference in my practice over 18 years, it always comes back to listening. Listening is how I found my way into a relationship with a child who moved away every time I tried to talk to him. Listening is how a teacher turned a nappy change into a moment of trust. Listening is how a group of children built a lawnmower from a wooden push chair and a bag of cut grass, with nothing but their imaginations and the support of a kaiako who was paying attention.
As the whakataukī says: "Mā te rongo, ka mōhio; mā te mōhio, ka mārama; mā te mārama, ka mātau; mā te mātau, ka ora." Through listening comes knowledge. Through knowledge comes understanding. Through understanding comes wisdom. Through wisdom comes wellbeing.
That is the journey. And it starts with being quiet enough to hear.