You mean... For us?!

Monday afternoon, the first day back for many of us after the holidays, I sat down in the Preschool Room to help someone put on her shoes after nap time (this is the way many children ask me to spend a few moments with them, even children who know how to put their own shoes on). As often happens, A, now the Biggest Preschooler, climbed into my lap. 

"So," she asked me, her inflection and tone sounding very adult, "how was your holidays?"

"Oh they were very nice, thank you for asking," I replied, "I got to meet my new baby niece, and I did all kinds of fun things with the rest of my family, too. How were your holidays? Did you go to Manitoba?"

From there, we shared the things about our holidays that were exciting and that were similar. She asked a lot of questions, and wanted to know "what else did you do?" and was excited to discover we had both gone to a McDonald's with a PlayPlace. It was clear that she had been practising the art of conversation for about 4.5 years and decided to try it out on me that day.

Today, I sat in the rocking chair in the Preschool Room, and A once again climbed into my lap.

"So," she asked again, "How has your day been going?"

"Oh, my day has been great, thank you for asking," I replied, "I got to visit the Preschoolers, and I got to visit the Toddlers, and I got to visit the Preschoolers again -"

"What did you do in the office, with J?" she interrupted (J is our program director. I have been spending a lot of time doing administrative stuff for the past six months, including manual writing and policy audits, among other things).

"Well," I responded, "I sent some emails to your dad and to someone's mom, and -"

"But," she interrupted, "what did you do with J?"

"With J? Well we spent some time talking about stuff and making plans to make sure everything is good for all the kids."

"You mean... for us?" Suddenly, her face was full of awe.

"Yes, of course," I assured her, "everything we do here is for you and the other children. If it weren't for all of you, we wouldn't even be here."

"Really?"

"Really. This school exists to give children a place to learn and grow and to be healthy and safe. If there weren't any kids at this school, all the teachers would be somewhere else, and there wouldn't even be a school."

"No crafts?"

"Nope. Why would we make crafts if there were no kids here to make them with us and enjoy them? I'm serious; everything we do here is because we think it will help you and your friends learn and grow and be healthy and safe."

"Woah. I did not even realise that this whole entire place is here all because of us."

That's right, kid. You're that important. I hope you never forget it!

The right to choose

Me, age eight, having caught my first fish. Some might say fishing is not a feminine pursuit, but that sure didn't stop me or make me any less excited!

About a week ago, I greeted one of the youngest preschoolers in the morning, and she responded with "I Thuperman!" (a declaration she assertively makes on a regular basis).

"Oh. Hi, Superman," I responded, and was prepared to carry on with my day, when the oldest of the preschoolers took great exception: "NO! You can't be Superman because you're a GIRL!"
"I THUPERMAN!" the girl insisted, her temper rising. I looked into the scowling face framed by platinum blond ringlets. Superman had never looked so beautiful to me.

The boy kept arguing that Superman is a boy, and you can only be Superman if you're a boy, not a girl.

"Wait a minute," I interrupted, as the argument grew more heated. It was clear that both were absolutely convinced of the truths they were speaking, and neither was going to be convinced. "I remember when you wanted to be a princess. Did anyone tell you 'NO!' because you're not a girl?" He looked embarrassed, but stopped to think for a moment. 'Princess Tommy' had made an appearance during Music Class only two days earlier, turning his sweatpants pockets inside-out and dancing with exaggerated hip-swinging motion, but has also visited in the past, decked out in a yellow princess gown, purple-and-pink tiara, and sparkly blue-sequined purse. My response to every assertion of "I'm a princess!" was "Oh. Hello, Princess Tommy."

"Nonsense! That's despicable!" protested the boy, but he let the matter rest.

Later, during a meeting, I sang a song that involves rhyming verses with the children's names. I sang "I know a girl whose name is..." and produced a clever rhyme including "Superman's" given name, and she leveled her gaze on me, and calmly said "I a boy."

"Oh," I responded, as I always do when children make statements about their own identities. "You're a boy today?"

"Yeah. I a boy."

"Oh, okay." And I let it go, although several times, she approached me throughout the day to verify that I would accept her assertion, sometimes repeating herself at increasing dynamics while I was occupied with another conversation, until I acknowledged her: "Yes, you're a boy. I hear you."
That afternoon, the children were lining up to go outside (we always leave the room lined up with partners, as the hallways are public space, and travelling in this way helps us stay together and stay safe) while I talked the last straggler through the last steps of a washroom routine, when I heard angry voices coming from the lineup. I offered my services as a mediator: "You sound angry. What's going on?'

"I a boy," came the sober explanation, followed by several shouted objections from classmates.

"You're a boy, I remember; you told me that earlier."

The other children stared at me in shock for a few moments.

The oldest girl met my eyes and spoke up, her tone plaintive. "She can't be a boy; she doesn't has a penis."

"That's okay," I said, "If she says she's a boy then she's a boy. I'm not about to argue with her about that. I'm not going to argue with her about that any more than I am going to argue with someone who tells me she's a unicorn, a princess, a fireman, or a dragon. Everybody has the right to decide that stuff for themselves." (Poor grammar, I know, but my point was made).

All of the children were silent and wide-eyed. "Superman" beamed proudly at all of her friends. And no one denied her claim "I a boy." There will be time enough to sort all of that out later. In preschool, it's the time for trying on different roles. And only the child can decide how well those roles fit.

Missa, why you're crying?

This week, we read A Poppy is to Remember by Heather Patterson (Author) and Ron Lightburn (Illustrator). I cannot read this book without crying at some point. Susan read it first, early in the week. But I picked it up and read it to the children myself later on. 

I made it through the descriptions of The Great War, and I made it through In Flanders Fields, and through statements about remembering people who died, who cared for the wounded, and who were left behind as their loved ones went far away to fight in wars. I had to pause and take a few deep breaths here and there, but I made it. And then came the part about remembering the soldiers who lived and returned home. One tear escaped from my eye, followed by another and another. 

"Missa, why you're crying?" asked one of the children.
"Because I feel sad." Crying is the natural thing to do when one feels sad, after all.
"Why?"
"I feel sad because my little brother was a soldier. He went away to a war." He served in Bosnia in 2003.
"And he died?"
"No. He didn't die. His body did not get hurt. But he saw people hurting each other. He saw people treating each other badly. He got very, very angry and very, very scared, and when he came home, he was never the same again. His body didn't get hurt; his heart got hurt."

Susan pointed out that one of our other teachers, who grew up in a refugee camp, was affected by a war, and that she had to go away from her parents when she was just a couple of years older than our students, and never saw them again. 

"War is a terrible thing. Lots of people get hurt in a war. Lots of people die."
"I don't want a war. War is not good."
"I agree. But we don't have to worry about a war here where we live, because our soldiers went far away to fight and keep us safe. They served our country so we can be free. We are allowed to go to school and to sing songs and say what we think, and play outside and be kids because of those soldiers. We don't have to be afraid. If you see a soldier in the next few days, maybe you can tell him or her 'thank you' for protecting your freedom."

Today, I sat on my best friend's couch watching the Remembrance Day ceremony in Ottawa (CBC makes a time-delayed broadcast so it airs at the proper time of day in each timezone) with her children playing in the background, marvelling at the sacrifices made by so many men and women over the years so that I might spend my days someplace safe and warm, with plenty of food to eat, and the right to speak my mind.

If I could, I would thank each and every one of them.

Wait, you mean I'm doing something unusual?

"Hey, Melissa, you wanna hear this?"
"Hey, Missa! Dess what!"
"Melissa, listen to my story!"
"Wanna know something, Melissa?"
"Dat's Missa dere!"

My days at work are filled with children who enjoy my company and want to talk to me. The ones who have a reputation for being "quiet" or the ones who only speak selectively often tell me long, complicated stories, and take the time to make sure I understand what they are trying to tell me. Almost every child seeks out a quiet moment to connect with me at some point during the day. This makes sense to me: my job involves building relationships with these kids, and I have a knack for understanding near-unintelligible speech.

The thing that surprises me is when children I rarely interact with (specifically, the ones in the toddler room) fall in love with me. They all are excited to see me in the hallway and clamour to tell me where they are going or where they just came from (usually "outside" or "the gym"), and many of them seek my attention when I stick my head into their classroom for a moment to talk to their teachers. But I don't see them all every day. And yet... I found out today that the oldest girl in the toddler room talks about coming to Daycare to see the director and... Missa. Not her classroom teachers. My mind has been boggling over this all day, and then suddenly, I realised. All those times I saw her in the boot room in the morning and greeted her by name (even though I never got any sign of a response), and all those times I said "Hello, how are you today?" when our paths crossed in the park or the playground, all those times I said "goodbye" to her at the end of the day and got a hidden, below-the-hip wave in return, all those times when she held up something for me to see, and I noticed and commented on it, I was building something with her.

For years, I've been the kind of person that small children really love. I am not boasting, and I am not perfect, but young children just really seem to like me a lot. It's been a mystery to me for a long time, but I think I'm starting to figure out some of the reasons why. I think the biggest one is this:

I communicate with them.

There's no big secret to communicating with young children, even pre-verbal ones. Which is why I didn't realise that the way I communicate with them is unusual in any way. Apparently, many other adults in the world seem to believe that small children are either incapable of comprehending or reciprocating communication, or that they're not worth communicating with (which is not to say that said adults are aware they hold these beliefs, or that they are acting upon them).

So. Maybe big people need some pointers on how to talk to small people. How to communicate with babies, toddlers, and preschoolers, Missa style:

1. Speak to them like they are people, because they are. All people deserve to be treated with dignity and respect, even the very young ones.
2. Listen attentively to what they have to say, and respond appropriately. 

 That's it. That's it? Really? Yes, yes it is.

But what does it mean?

When speaking to someone, most of us follow a number of rules that we learned and internalised when we were very tiny. We sometimes forget to follow those same rules when speaking to babies or toddlers, but they are still important. When speaking to someone, one ought to:

• Maintain appropriate eye contact. This may mean squatting, kneeling, bending down, or holding a child in one's lap.
• Pause after asking a question and wait for the other person to respond. Even when you're pretty sure you won't get an answer (like when I greet a young toddler in the morning with "Hi Jenny, how are you today?"), it's important to allow the opportunity for one to be given. Parents look at me like I'm slightly off my rocker sometimes when I do this.
• Watch the other person's reactions to know how he feels about the conversation. We naturally watch for nonverbal cues from other adults to regulate when it is time to change the subject, when the other person wants a turn to talk, whether the other person is confused or bored or even listening at all, and so on. Young children are perfectly capable of showing you those same nonverbal cues.
• Use an appropriate volume and tone of voice. Like shouting loudly at old people, using a falsely enthusiastic, loud, high-pitched voice to speak to children is condescending, and they know it. They're people, not puppies. Now I don't mean to say that the kind of soft, high voice people naturally use when speaking to tiny babies in inappropriate, but it's not necessary to speak two octaves above your normal voice every time you talk to someone smaller than yourself. Also: Talking like Dora the Explorer doesn't help you communicate effectively with a child. It's okay to be calm and quiet. Kids don't need to be shouting excitedly all day long, and neither do you.

Effective listening skills are sometimes difficult to engage. Particularly with young children, we tend to respond a lot with "YEAH? REally? Uh-huh? Cool! Oh... Okay." without having any clue what on earth the child is saying. Instead, one could try to:

• Maintain appropriate eye contact (again? still?) and indicate non-verbally that you are listening and interested in what the child has to say. This may mean displaying appropriate facial expressions, nodding at key moments, and using those verbal nods more appropriately (in a quiet, normal tone of voice).
• Confirm that the message you are receiving is the one the child is sending. This can be accomplished by asking clarifying questions ("I see you're signing 'more' but you still have lots of cheerios in front of you. Are you asking for something different?"), paraphrasing what you've heard, or (especially in the case of children with poor speech intelligibility), repeating what you think you've heard. ("I go simming!" "You went swimming?" "Yeah! I go simming Mommy Daddy! Sayd!" "You went swimming and there was a slide?" "No. Asayd." "Oh! You went swimming outside! With your mom and dad? That sounds like fun.") I know this sounds kind of tedious, but it really is worth it. First of all, you're sending the message that you really care about what the child has to say. And the more you work to understand what the child is saying, the less you'll have to rely on repeating it all to make sure you've heard correctly. I sometimes still quietly repeat things that some children say when there are less-familiar people in the room, because I know that I have learned to understand them, but others haven't necessarily had the chance to learn that a "weederwodder" is a "police-car helicopter" or that "Uhdah? oihprnefkflfmoisdc Dide?" means "Melissa? Can we go play outside?"
• Take seriously whatever it is the child is telling you. It can be hard not to giggle sometimes when a young child shares some erroneous information or tries out some big, new words. Yes, they are adorable, and sometimes hilarious, but unless the child is clearly telling a joke, it is inappropriate to laugh. If you laugh or tell a child how cute or smart he is every time he tries to talk to you, he is eventually not going to want to talk to you at all. Instead:
• Respond with compassion and respect to the child's message. "It sounds like getting a needle at the doctor's office was a little bit scary for you." is a much more appropriate response than telling the child it didn't hurt, for instance. We are so anxious to make sure our children never cry or feel scared or uncomfortable that we fail to realise that they are entitled to their emotions, and the only way they will learn to deal with them in a healthy way is if we allow them to experience and express said emotions fully and appropriately. Sometimes, I respond to a shouted "YOU'RE NOT MY FRIEND AND YOU'RE NEVER COMING TO MY BIRTHDAY PARTY EVER AGAIN!" (basically the most dire threat a preschooler can think of) with "You seem to be really angry with your friend. Did you mean to tell him 'I feel angry and what you did really hurt my feelings'? You don't have to threaten him." This often leads to either a tearful tattle from the shouter or a desperate self-defense plea from the other child. But it transforms a shouting match into a dialogue without discounting anyone's legitimate emotions.
• Avoid interrrupting, and if you do interrupt, promptly appologise. This is especially important when talking to kids with impulse control difficulties (because you are, in fact modeling desired behaviour when you avoid interrupting) or with speech difficulties like stuttering (because it is important to allow the child to deliver his message, and he will feel more anxious, stuttering more, if he sees you growing impatient or interrupting). Basically, show some respect, as you would with an older speaker.

Phew! That's a long one! I firmly believe that speaking to young children is something that needs to be approached with thoughtfulness and respect, just like speaking to adults. It really is worth it, in the end. You never know what a child will be willing to tell you if she can trust you to actually listen to her message.

Lunch Table Conversation

Many people forget that one of the things we do when we sit down to have a meal together is converse. Adults will sit at the table for hours sometimes, visiting over a meal.

We believe it is important for children to experience the social aspect of sharing a meal together, so we make a point of sitting down together, waiting for everyone at our table to arrive before we begin eating, and waiting until everyone at our table has finished before leaving. Preschool table conversation can be a lot of things, but boring is rarely one of them. Sometimes, it's ridiculous (such as the time some kids pretended every single edible item in their lunch boxes were telephones) or serious (like the conversations sparked by things kids have heard about on the news) and sometimes it is educational.

Today, the PA system interrupted our lunch conversation to inform us that "There will be a disruption of the fire alarm service in the West building. In case of fire, call 66#."

"That's not for us," stated J, authoratatively.
"What did it say?"
"What was that?" -- these are both frequently asked questions after an announcement. The children know that sometimes, the announcement tells us someone is sick or hurt and needs help from a doctor right away (code blue or nursing response) and that the person no longer needs help (code blue/nursing response is all clear). The important ones (and the reason the children loudly shush each other when the annoying dinging noise preceeds the announcement) are the "Code Red" announcements: Those ones might be "fire drills". We are really good at fire drills.

I explained that the announcement was so we know that if we see a fire, and we pull the fire alarm, it won't work, so we should just call the switchboard and tell them about it instead.
"Six-six-pound! That's what you call!" one child reminded me.
"Why is the fire alarm not working?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe they need to fix it or test it or do some work to it. Maybe it is just not working right now."
"Maybe it's not working because there's some wires, and the wires that go in it are rusty and they have to get it out," offered J.
"I think so maybe a ghost got in there and it putted its hand in and got rust in the wires and broke it," was A's thought.
"Ghost-iz are not real," Z objected, sparking a brief debate over whether ghosts are real or make-believe.
"HEY WAIT A MINUTE!" yelled J, "I know what happened to the fire alarm!"
"Oh? What do you think, J?" I asked.
"They have to take it down and take out the battery and put a new one and hang it back up."
"Oh, it needs a new battery? Could be."
"I think J was right all along!" exclaimed G, "It hadded to get a new battery and get the rusty wires out."

The conversation wandered away to something completely different, but I thought it was significant that one of the "medium" kids brought some of his prior knowledge (probably he is linking the fire alarm service with the smoke detector at his house) to share with his peers, who used it to construct new knowledge. Hours later, when the announcement came that the fire alarm "is back in service", someone who had not been sitting at our table (but had obviously been listening) piped up "I guess they finally changed the battery..."

Someone needed it more than we did.

Tuesday, I took a small group of children over to our garden patch, intending to harvest George, Frank, and Harry, our trio of pumpkins. But when we arrived at the garden, we discovered Frank and Harry sitting, happy as can be, on either side of a blank space. George, the biggest pumpkin, had vanished!

 I suppose that in order to fully appreciate the significance of this tale, you need the whole story.  A long time ago, last spring, we started exploring seeds and reading about how they grow. 

We planted sprouts in the sand table.

 We transplanted a sprout into a pot.

We made an experimental window greenhouse display to see how different kinds of seeds would look when they sprouted.

We planted some seeds in egg carton cups, and grew them in the window.

We watered, and measured, and sang to our seeds to help them grow.

A family who lives nearby gave us some lumber to paint.

Then they used the lumber to create a raised garden bed for us. We transplanted our egg-cup pea plants into one corner.

We planted carrots, radishes, beans, lettuce, onions, cucumbers, watermelons, broccoli, marigolds, sunflowers, pumpkins, and chard. Some of those things we planted too late, and haven't been able to harvest. Maybe next year! But, many things, we did plant in time. The pumpkins were the seeds that excited us the most; we remember carving George the Jack-o-lantern and then turning him into delicious tarts last fall.

 We planted our pumpkin seeds in early June, at the same time as our sunflower seeds.

Soon, we had several healthy pumpkin plants sprouting in the back corner of the garden.

In early July, we thinned the pumpkins down to just one, the healthiest-looking plant.

 Soon, that plant was big enough to start training up the trellis, so it wouldn't overwhelm the entire garden.

 Here is the flower that appeared in mid-to-late July, and eventually grew to become George II.

Now, it is October.

Last week, on September 27th, George looked like this:

By October 2nd, he was gone, leaving only his two brothers flanking the empty space where he had been.

 The adults are far more upset over this development than the children. The ones who came to the garden with me to pick the pumpkins said "I think the wind blowed it away..." and when we told everyone about George's mysterious disappearance at meeting time, the theories were flying all over the place (from kids sitting on their bottoms, raising their hands, and listening to what one another had to say, no less!) about what had caused our biggest pumpkin to vanish:

"I think a bad guy stealed it," was the prevailing theme, with a few other ideas, such as "A purple polka-dot monster took it to feed its babies!" (we agreed that if the babies were hungry, it was okay for the moster to use our pumkpin) or "Maybe it got up on some legs and walked to its new home!"

Ultimately, the children decided that whoever took the pumpkin needed it more than we did. Maybe they didn't have a nice garden like ours to grow their own. And they left us two little ones, so it's okay. I promised to buy a big carving pumpkin closer to Halloween time for our jack-o-lantern, and we can use these little ones for tasty treats like roasted seeds... and George tarts.

The children are already making plans to grow next year's pumpkin:

"Hey, I know! We can put the pumpkin in the ground and grow more pumpkins!"
"Yeah!"
"No! You don't put the pumpkin! You get it open and then you put the seeds in the ground."
"Oh yeah, let's plant the seeds and grow more pumpkins!"
"Not now, it's going to be winter, guys."
"Winter pumkins!"
"If you grow pumpkins in the snow then they'll freeze and be dead."
"Oh. Maybe we should wait until it's not winter."

The Preschool 'Bad-Bye' Blues

Thursday, I received a text from one of my closest friends:

"Got ideas on how I can get my son into school without him having a panic attack and complete meltdown?"

Unfortunately, Thursday was one of the days where we had seventeen children, and one teacher was off, at the text arrived right at the beginning of the most transition-intensive period of the day: The "wash hands/eat lunch/clean up lunch/toilet/go to sleep and do it all in 90 minutes with 17 preschoolers and only 3 teachers" period. So I didn't have a chance to answer her right away. So now I am going to answer here, where maybe other desperate moms, dads, and teachers can glean some ideas.

Every child has some difficulty being "left" somewhere while his or her parents go off into the wide world for a while. Some of them learn to deal with it sooner than others, and some cope internally, with barely a sign to us, the observing adults, that there was ever any anxiety at all. In the toddler room, we deal with children who may only have a shaky grasp of object permanence, at least at first, and might not understand that Mommy and Daddy still exist. In the toddler room, we tell the parents to say goodbye, promise to be back in a few hours, and quickly leave, screaming child or no. Eventually, the child will learn to trust his or her teachers, and to trust that Mommy and Daddy will return, as promised, every time.

Older children who maybe haven't had a lot of experience with daycare or similar situations very often have trouble separating from Mom and Dad at some point during the preschool or kindergarten experience. The same general theory applies with them as with the little ones: say goodbye like it is no big deal, say when you will return, and then leave. Screaming child or no. No "just one more hug" fifteen times in a row. No fussing about "you're fine, you're going to have fun, look! Your friend Johnny isn't sad! Why don't you go play with him?" Most teachers deal with goodbyes all the time. We know that it's hard on both parent and child, honest. It's hard for us and for your child's classmates, too! In preschool, children take social cues from one another way more than they do in the toddler age group, and they pay attention to how their peers are feeling and behaving.

It doesn't always happen on the first day, or in the first week. Sometimes, a child has "bad-bye" days sporadically for years and is fine the rest of the time.

Here are some tips from our classroom and from my background as a special needs educator that might be helpful if you've got a child who acts out at drop-off time, whatever the reason.

Speaking of reasons, it's important to suss out why your preschooler is anxious or upset about school
(For the sake of argument, I am referring to children who can have a conversation, usually somewhere after the second birthday and older, as preschoolers; I will refer to wherever-it-is you're leaving your child as "school" but the same applies for daycare... You get it, right?). Sometimes, it's anxiety over the unknown, particularly if your child is the type who has to know what is going to happen before it happens. Sometimes, the pressure of being expected to follow new rules and talk to new people and take instructions from some overly-friendly stranger is just too much to handle. Sometimes, the other kids make things too chaotic and overstimulating for comfort. Sometimes, Mom or Dad's over-the-top fussing is reinforcing to the child. Sometimes, tummies don't have enough food in them, there wasn't enough sleep had the night before, or a child is just not feeling well. Sometimes, children just don't feel like having a school day. Just like sometimes, adults just don't feel like having a work day.

Some of these reasons we, the adults, can address. Others, we cannot address directly.

Things to do to help smooth out that good-bye transition:

• Establish a comfortable night-before-school routine. You may find it helpful to pick out tomorrow's clothes together, or pack lunch/snack together, and get your child thinking about his school day in the calm, comfortable environment of home. This is your opportunity to talk him through any of the fears or anxieties he might express (without dismissing them! Your child's fears, no matter how trivial or absurd they seem from an adult point of view, are very real to him; hard as it is, you need to take them seriously). If a particular worry comes up, you can make a plan together to address it: "I know you are worried about zipping your coat up at outside time. It's still kind of tricky for you, isn't it? What do you think you could do if you need some help?" 
• Make sure your child is well-rested. I know, I know, this one is easier said than done. On average, children between 1 and 3 years need 10 to 13 hours of sleep in a 24-hour period. Children 3 to about 12 years need 10 to 12 hours of sleep. Depending on your routine, some of this sleep may happen with a midday nap, especially for toddlers and preschoolers; at our centre, the preschoolers lie down for naptime between noon and 12:30, most are asleep by 12:45, and they all sleep about 1.75 to 2 hours. That means they need to get another 8 to 10 hours of sleep at home. Hard to contemplate when you have to get out the door at 7:30am, get home at 6pm, and need time for supper, bedtime routines, and spending time together (not to mention the separation-anxiety-driven bedtime battle!), but that's the reality of working full time and having your child in a full-day care program. There's more schedule flexibility to a half-day program routine, as you could let your child have a "rest"/nap before an afternoon class or after a morning class.
• Try not to stress out over breakfast. It's hard to eat a good meal when you're nervous. Being nervous makes your tummy feel funny. Offer some nutritious choices for breakfast, remind your child that if she's hungry later there will be snack at school/her lunch is available at lunch time/whatever the case may be, and leave it at that. If she eats breakfast, great! If not, try offering a banana or some apple slices on the way to school, in case she changes her mind, and maybe give the teacher a heads-up about the non-breakfast (it makes a HUGE difference with some kids!) and leave it at that. Kids this young tend to balance out their caloric intake over the course of a day naturally. As long as breakfast-skipping doesn't become habitual, it won't hurt to let it happen a few times. It's more important to avoid making breakfast into a power struggle.
• Make a one-one-one-one rule for yourself. One hug, I love you. One kiss, I will be back when school is all done. One hug, good-bye. One wave on your way out, if necessary, either through the door or through a window if the school's setup and schedule allows. Then flee out of your child's sight and cry if you have to. This is possibly the hardest part of separation for parents. Please, resist the temptation to give in to pleas for "just one more minute" or "just one more hug"; this is the reason schools adopt a policy asking parents NOT to stay when dropping students off. It may feel like you're meeting your child's need by doing this, but really you're validating his anxiety. By reacting like it's something that requires your comforting presence, you're telling him there really is something to be afraid of. Also, as with any tantrum, he might just be pushing your buttons to prove that he's still in charge. 
• Be honest about when you are coming back. Please, please please, for the love of your child's trusting heart, never succumb to the "bait and switch" tactic: "Oh, I'll just wait until he's involved in something and slip out before he notices" seems to work, but that's because you don't have to deal with the terror your child feels when he realises you've vanished. Nor do you have to calm his frantic screaming and pounding on the classroom door to try to get to you. Similarly, do not tell your child you will "be right back" or be back "in a few minutes" unless you will actually be right back in a few minutes (and to a preschooler, three minutes is a few minutes). It is not fun for a teacher to explain to a distraught child that her parent actively lied to her. Instead, you could say "It's time for me to go now. I will be back in three hours to pick you up." Or, "I'll see you when school is over/when I'm all done work/later this afternoon." Make it clear that time will pass before your return. 
• Use visual reminders to support your promise to return. If your child's school will allow it, and if you consistently pick your child up at the same time each day, this may be a useful tool for your child to manage his or her own anxiety: Get a wallet-sized photograph of yourself. Go to a photo booth if you have to! On the back of the photo, draw (or print out and paste) an analogue clock showing the time at which you will pick up your child. Laminate the photo or wrap it in clear packing tape for durability. Let your child keep this tool in his or her pocket to pull out for reassurance. Point out the clock in your child's classroom, so there is a reference to compare the "pick-up" clock to. Your child will be empowered by this, as he or she will not have to keep asking teachers "how long until my mommy/daddy is going to be here?" As long as the pocket card doesn't become distracting, most teachers should be fine with it.
• Find out your child's school routine and talk through it. When kids come up to me, watery-eyed, telling me they miss their mommies, I talk them through what's left of our day. "I know you miss your mommy. Mommy's at work. We'll see her when she's all done. Right now, we're going to sleep (these miss-my-mommy chats often happen right at nap time), and then we'll wake up, put the beds away, and go outside/to the gym/whatever. Then we'll have a snack and a meeting, and play a little while longer, and then Mommy will be here." Sometimes, the kids talk me through the routine after I give them the "right now" step. A little cuddle, and away we go. You can talk through your child's school routine on the way to school or during your evening-before routine. "When you get to school, you will have free play, and then circle time. After circle comes centres, and then snack time." etc., until... "and then I will be there to pick you up! And we'll (go to the library, go home for lunch/supper, pick up your sister from out-of-school care, whatever you plan to do after school)!"
• Tell your child what you will be doing during school time. Some kids need to have a constant inventory of what their loved ones are doing. "Daddy is at work. Mommy is going to a meeting while you are in school. Big brother is at his school. The dogs are at home in the back yard." Some kids need to know they're not missing out on anything more exciting than school, too! Especially if you've got another child who has preschool on different days/times. Maybe school time is gym time for you, and whichever child doesn't have school that day gets to chill out in the gym's daycare (oh no, that is not a very specific, possibly personalised suggestion at all, noooooo...). 
• Trust the teachers. These people to whom you are entrusting your child have dealt with the bad-bye blues over and over again. Talk to them about what will make the transition smoother for your child and what will work with the routine of the classroom. In our class, we allow a few of the children to show their treasures to their friends before sending the treasures back with mom or dad (toys from home aren't allowed, except naptime loveys and sharing Fridays!). A few of the children need an extra hug from a teacher once mom or dad is out the door. One or two of them need a reminder from a teacher that even though they are sad to say goodbye, the time until mom or dad returns goes by faster if you find something fun to do. One family wrote "Mommy loves you" on the sole of their son's left shoe, and "Daddy loves you" on the right shoe, and regularly leaves little love notes in his lunch box. One of our newest preschoolers has a small blankie that she carries with her in the morning. It's usually forgotten in the dolly bed by meeting time, resurfaces for her snuggling pleasure at naptime, and gets rescued into her cubby when the beds are put away, until it's retrieved when Mommy picks her up at the end of the day. One of the boys (one of the oldest, now! How did that happen!!!) asks me to read him a story when he's really missing his parents. Another goes straight for the art centre to draw a picture for his mommy if he's having trouble getting into the swing of things. We will figure out what works best for your child; we just need you to let us do it! It's not ideal if we have to pry your screaming child out of your arms as you give her eighteen more kisses and hugs and apologise for leaving her, or if we have to tell her that you tricked her and snuck out, or that you lied about being back in a minute. Talk to us, and we can figure out together what will work best for your child!

Every child has the bad-bye blues once in a while. If your child expresses anxiety or fear, address the specific fear. But most important of all, build on the trusting relationship that already exists between you and your child. Make sure he or she knows that you will always come back, no matter what. And hang in there! In most cases, the preschool bad-bye blues don't last. They might come and go, but they're usually resolved by the end of kindergarten.

Feel free to share your transition tips in the comments here: I know there are a number of experienced parents and teachers among my (five) readers!