Where We Begin

Dear Families,

If you’ve found your way here, you may simply be curious about Peapod Place. Maybe you’re exploring different educational options. Maybe you’re wondering what makes our days look a little different from a traditional classroom. Or maybe you’re just hoping to get a better sense of who we are before deciding whether we might be the right fit for your family. However it is that you ended up here, I’m really glad you did.

There are plenty of places on this website where you can learn about our curriculum, our daily rhythm, or what a typical week looks like. Those things are obviously important, and I’m always happy to answer practical questions, but before we talk about what we do, I’d love to first share a little about why we do it.

When you spend enough time around children, something… interesting…. begins to happen.

The older I get, the less I find myself wondering exactly what children need to learn and the more I find myself wondering, instead, what opportunities they need to have.

That question quietly shapes almost every decision we make at Peapod Place.

When I think about my own children, I don’t find myself hoping they’ll simply someday “become adults who can read well, write well, and earn good grades.” Of course those things have value, but they aren’t the only things I hope they’ll carry with them for the rest of their lives. Above all else, I hope they’re kind, curious, and that they notice when someone is hurting. I hope they’re willing to help without being asked. I hope they know how to work through disappointment, celebrate someone else’s success, ask thoughtful questions, and still find joy in seemingly ordinary things. And I’ve realized something over the years… The hopes I carry for my own children really aren’t very different from the hopes I carry for the other children who also spend their days here.

When I first began Peapod Place, I thought A LOT about the curriculum. I actually still do. I’m a planner by nature and thrive when there are systems in place. I love finding wonderful books, meaningful projects, beautiful places to explore, and interesting things to learn together. But somewhere along the way, I realized those things weren’t actually the heart of what we were building. They were simply the setting.

The real work was happening in the spaces between them. I’m talking about the kinds of things I can’t plan for and pencil into our schedule. It happened while two children figured out how to solve a disagreement without an adult stepping in. Or when one child patiently waited for another child to finish speaking, even though they were absolutely exploding with excitement to also share their own idea. Other times it was a group working together to prepare lunch or when one child noticed another sitting alone and quietly invited them to join.

Those moments were never listed on the lesson plan… Yet somehow, they often became the most important part of the day.

The more years I spend learning alongside children, the more convinced I become that childhood is FULL of opportunities, and most of them are surprisingly… ordinary. A spilled cup of juice, a basket of clean laundry needing to be folded, or a watering can that’s just a little too full. Sometimes the opportunity is a story that asks us to sit with sadness, a disagreement over whose turn comes next, or a heavy bin that needs another pair of hands to help carry it. An empty bird feeder, a garden bed that needs weeding, or perhaps a rug covered in pet hair that needs vacuuming.

To an adult, those moments can feel overwhelmingly like interruptions. And truthfully, sometimes they definitely are. Life is busy. Very busy. We’re tired. We’re running late. It’s often faster—and honestly much easier—to do these things ourselves. I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve done exactly that. Sometimes efficiency really does matter. But I’ve also learned that many of the qualities we hope children develop aren’t built during extraordinary moments. They’re built during ordinary ones. 

Not because we lecture about kindness, but because a child has the opportunity to practice it. Not because we explain responsibility… because someone trusted them with something that mattered. Not because we tell them confidence is important, but because they experienced the satisfaction of doing something they didn’t think they could do. The opportunities were there all along… The real question was simply whether I was willing to slow down long enough to let children step into them.

One of the things that has caught me off guard the most over the years is how often meaningful moments begin with something no one could have ever planned. A mushroom growing beside the path that everyone else almost walked right past… The tiniest little green bean beginning to grow where there had only been a flower the week before… A weird-sounding bird we’ve never heard before… A praying mantis tucked so perfectly into the coneflowers that none of us noticed it until we slowed down and it was right in front of our faces!

Those moments rarely begin with a formal lesson… They usually begin with me saying, “Come check this out- this is so cool!” Not because I already know where the conversation is going, but because I’m simply excited to share something neat I noticed. Before long, the questions begin: “Can you eat that?” “How did the flower turn into a bean?” “Where did that bug come from?” “What bird is making that crazy sound?” “Did you know that praying mantis girls sometimes eat boy ones?!” And before anyone realizes it, we’ve spent twenty minutes learning together because we paused long enough to let our minds both wonder and wander.

One of my favorite things is watching that begin to change. At first, I’m usually the one calling the children over. A few weeks later… They're calling me. “Ms. Melissa! Look what I found!” Someone has found a caterpillar. Another child has spotted a tiny toad tucked beneath some leaf litter. Someone else noticed that the beans are slightly bigger than they were last week.

Those are the kinds of moments that warm my heart. Not because they’ve learned another science fact, but because they’ve begun moving through the world differently. They’re slowing down. They’re noticing. They’re discovering that the world is full of beautiful, fascinating things that are easy to miss when we’re always hurrying to the next thing or the next place… And I honestly think that’s one of the greatest gifts I can give the children who spend their days with me. Not simply knowledge. But the habit of noticing.

Because when we learn to notice tiny things in the garden… I think we slowly become the kind of people who notice bigger things too. Like a friend who needs encouragement, someone who’s been left out, an opportunity to help, or a quiet act of kindness. Learning to notice a mushroom may seem like a very small thing. I don’t think it is. I think it’s practice. I wholeheartedly believe the habits we practice in childhood quietly become the way we move through the world as adults.

Stories Worth Sitting With

If you’ve spent any time familiarizing yourself with Peapod Place, you’ll quickly discover that books are woven into almost everything we do. We read a LOT of books. Not just ANY books, either. Living books. Books about people, animals, places, feelings, cultures, conflicts, and adventures. And no, not because reading is simply another subject to check off the list. We all know that “reading is important”, but why exactly is it so important?

Because stories give us opportunities to practice being human. 

Some stories make us laugh until we can barely catch our breath. Others leave us wondering what we would have done if we’d been in the character’s place. Some challenge the way we see the world. And every once in a while… a story quietly changes us.

One of those stories we experienced here was The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. It was actually my first time reading it too. I had no idea what was going to happen any more than the children did and that made it all the more exciting. Week after week the kids begged me to read “just one more chapter!!!” Sometimes I did. Sometimes I smiled and told them we’d have to wait until next week. Waiting wasn’t always easy for either of us. When completely wrapped up in a story, another chapter feels almost impossible to resist. 

But patience isn’t something most of us simply wake up with one morning. Just like kindness, perseverance, or responsibility, it’s something we have to practice. Sometimes that practice looks surprisingly ordinary. Sometimes it looks like waiting a few more days to find out what happens next in our story.

When we finally reached the chapter where Sarah Ruth dies… I was not prepared for how hard it would be to read aloud. My voice cracked as I made my way through the words on the page. I actually had to stop for a moment before I could continue. Not because I wanted the children to see me cry, we are all human, but because the story had become real enough that I couldn’t simply read the words and move on. It wasn’t just a story at that point. As I looked around the room, I realized some of the children hadn’t quite processed what had happened yet. A few looked confused. One abruptly asked, “Wait… WHAT just happened!?”  So we didn’t turn the page. We stayed there. We talked. Not because I wanted to explain the chapter. Because I wanted to make sure everyone understood what had happened before we hurried past it. We let ourselves feel sad. We let the room be quiet. We sat with something uncomfortable together.

I’ve thought about that afternoon many times since then. Not because it was part of my lesson plan- It wasn’t. But because it reminded me that some of the most meaningful learning happens when we give children permission to stay with something a little longer. Permission to let them ask another question, feel something deeply, and realize that not every difficult moment needs to be rushed past simply because it’s uncomfortable. Life unfortunately won’t always give us that choice. But when it can… I think it’s worth taking.

People sometimes wonder why we spend so much time reading aloud, when many of the children are already capable readers, and the answer is actually very simple:

Reading independently teaches children how to read words but not how to experience stories.

Reading together gives us opportunities to experience those words together.

We laugh, wonder, and ask questions together. Even disagree, together. Sometimes, we even cry together.Those shared experiences become part of the fabric of our little community. Long after the details of the story fade, the conversations somehow stay. And if you ask me… those conversations were every bit as important as the book itself.

The Opportunity to Contribute

One of the things that’s been impossible to not notice over the years is that children genuinely want to help. And not because someone promises them a sticker, a reward, or some other ‘prize.’ They want to help simply because helping naturally feels good. Somewhere along the way, though, I think we unintentionally begin removing those opportunities from them. Not because we don’t value their help, but because we’re busy. We’re trying to get dinner on the table. We’re running late. We’re tired… SO tired… and it’s simply faster to just do it ourselves and be done with it. I understand that feeling. I’ve definitely been there, too. Sometimes more than I like to admit... And sometimes overall efficiency really does matter. But I’ve also learned that when we’re always the ones doing the important jobs, children miss countless opportunities to discover just how capable they really are as individuals… As humans.

One afternoon, I watched a younger child carefully carry a pitcher of lemonade across the room. Both hands were wrapped tightly around the handle and they were walking at a snails pace, completely focused, as if they were the only one in the room. They thought about each step and inched their way across the room ever so carefully. An adult could have done it in five seconds. Instead, it took them at least 10 times that… but no one rushed over to take it. No one said, “Here, let me do that instead!” And do you know what? When the pitcher finally reached the table without spilling a single drop, the smile on that child’s face said everything. It wasn’t really about the lemonade at all. It was about being trusted with something that mattered and them realizing they were indeed capable.

I’ve seen that same look while children peel an apple for the first time with an actual, real (and sharp) vegetable peeler. While they sweep the floor after lunch. While they gather eggs from the duck coop into a basket to bring in the house. While they carefully water teeny seedlings they’ve been watching grow for weeks. While they help a younger friend zip their jacket, put on a boot, or reach something they can’t yet. None of those moments are extraordinary on their own. In fact, they’re the kinds of things adults often do without giving them a second thought. But to a child… They're opportunities. Opportunities to become capable. Opportunities to discover, “I can do it!”

Sometimes that means something takes longer… much longer. Sometimes the floor isn’t swept perfectly and some crumbs still remain. Sometimes the muffins come out a little lopsided or overmixed. Sometimes someone spills the flour by accidentally sneezing into the bowl with the flour. Sometimes a watering can empties a little ‘too enthusiastically’ onto one tomato seedling (R.I.P. tomato, sorry!) Those moments have happened here more times than I can count. And honestly… I’m okay with that.

Because I’m not only hoping children learn how to sweep the floor or bake muffins. I’m hoping they learn something much bigger… That they are capable of contributing in meaningful ways. That they have something worthwhile to offer the people around them. That their hands are capable. That their ideas matter, no matter how silly they might initially seem. And that they don’t have to wait until they’re adults and can do things “perfectly” before they become valuable members of a community.

One of my favorite moments each school year is when something quietly changes. Without anyone asking… someone notices a younger child struggling with a math problem and they eagerly step in to gently explain it in a way the younger child understands. Another child begins helping clean up after lunch because they saw someone else doing it yesterday. Someone notices a younger friend having difficulty with boots and kneels down to help before even I realize it’s needed. 

Those moments warm my heart every single time. Not because the room is cleaner. Not because my job becomes easier. Because I can almost see the way children are beginning to think about themselves changing. Because I know I’m watching something much deeper than a chore. I’m watching children begin to see themselves as people who contribute, people who notice, and people who care. And I don’t think that’s something children suddenly discover at eighteen. I think it begins in moments like these… in quiet acts of kindness, one at a time.

Belonging

One of the things I treasure most about a mixed-age environment is watching children discover that they all have something meaningful to offer, regardless of their age. Of course,  it doesn’t happen overnight. In fact, it often begins very quietly in small ways. A younger child watches an older one tie a knot. An older child kneels down to help zip a jacket. Someone who struggled with something last month suddenly becomes the person helping someone else with that same thing this month. No one announces that those moments are important… But I think they are.

I’ve never really believed that children need to be the same exact age to learn from one another. Some of the most beautiful learning I’ve ever witnessed has happened between children who were several years apart. Not because one child became the teacher, but because both children left having learned something. Sometimes the younger child learns a new skill. Sometimes the older child learns patience. Sometimes they both learn confidence. Sometimes they both leave laughing. And yet somehow… Everyone grows because of it. 

One of my favorite things to watch is when a child first realizes they’re capable of helping someone else. Not because an adult assigned a job, but because they noticed the opportunity themselves and decided to act. A friend can’t quite reach something. Someone’s hands are full. A younger child isn’t sure what to do next. Without thinking very much about it… they step in. Those are the moments that really hit me in the feels because I know I’m watching something that can’t really be taught through a worksheet. It has to be lived.

People sometimes ask whether younger children fall behind in a mixed-age environment. I’ve honestly found myself wondering something different. Instead, I find myself wondering how much children miss when they’re only surrounded by children exactly their own age. In families, neighborhoods, workplaces, and communities, we spend our lives learning alongside people who are both older and younger than we are. It’s part of what makes our lives richer and more diverse. Childhood doesn’t have to be different.

There’s something incredibly special about watching an older child discover that they’re capable of encouraging someone else. And there’s something equally special about watching a younger child realize, “Maybe someday I’ll be able to do that, too!”

I don’t think belonging happens because everyone is the same. I think belonging happens because everyone matters. One thing I sincerely hope every child comes to understand while they're here is that their place in our community isn't something they have to earn. They don't belong because they're the best reader, the funniest, the strongest helper, or the child who always has the right answer… They belong because they're part of our little community, long before they've discovered what they have to offer it.

I've also found that children don't contribute because they're trying to earn a place in the community. More often, they contribute because they know they already have one. I think that's an important distinction. When children know they belong exactly as they are, helping becomes an expression of that belonging—not a requirement for it.

Some children are skilled, imaginative readers. Some can identify nearly every bug or bird or animal we come across. Some are natural builders and architects. Some children have an incredible way of making everyone around them laugh. Some notice when a friend needs a hug or is feeling “off” before I do. Some ask questions no one else ever would have thought to ask because they see the world from such a unique perspective. 

None of those gifts are more important than another. They’re simply different. And together… they become a community.

One of my greatest hopes for the children who spend their days here isn’t that they become the smartest person in the room. It’s that they grow into someone who knows they have something worthwhile to contribute… and who naturally begins looking for those same gifts in the people around them. Because I think those two things are inseparable.

When children know they belong… they become much better at helping other people belong, too.

Looking Ahead

Sometimes people wonder what I hope children take with them when they leave Peapod Place. It’s a question I’ve thought about many times. And the truth is…I don’t find myself  hoping they’ll remember every science lesson we explored together. Or every chapter of every book we read. Or even every fact they learned while they were here. Those things matter, but they aren’t what I think about most. Instead… I find myself wondering about the adults they’re slowly becoming. I wonder if they’ll be the kind of person who notices when someone is sitting alone. I wonder if they’ll stop to listen when a child excitedly wants to show them something. Maybe they’ll pause long enough to admire a mushroom growing beside the trail, or hear a bird they’ve never noticed before. I wonder if they’ll choose kindness, even when no one is watching. I wonder if they’ll trust someone else with an opportunity instead of doing everything themselves because it’s faster. I wonder if they’ll believe they have something worthwhile to contribute to the people around them.

I don’t think those things begin in adulthood. I think they begin in childhood. Quietly. One small seemingly insignificant opportunity at a time. 

It took me a long time to put into words: What makes Peapod Place feel different? For a long time, I honestly wasn’t quite sure how to answer. Now, I know. It’s not the books, the garden, the cooking, the ducks, exploring nature, or the fun projects we do. As much as I love all of those things… they’ve never really been the point. They’re simply the places where life happens. The real work has always been something much quieter. It’s noticing, wondering, contributing, belonging, and practicing patience. It’s learning to care for ourselves, for one another, and for the world around us. It’s making room for children to become capable and it’s choosing opportunities over efficiency, even when that means things take a little longer. Because I don’t believe childhood is simply preparation for life.

I believe childhood is life.

And I think it deserves to be lived slowly enough that we don’t rush past the moments that matter most.

When I imagine the children who spend their days here years from now, I don’t picture report cards or test scores. I picture ordinary moments. A grown child stopping to help someone carry something heavy. A parent kneeling down because their child says, “Come see what I found!” Someone choosing curiosity instead of judgment. Someone taking the extra minute to let a child pour the lemonade, even though they know it might spill. Someone simply noticing. Someone listening to understand instead of simply waiting for their turn to speak. Someone making another person feel like they belong. If even a small piece of Peapod Place quietly lives on in moments like those… I think we’ve done something worthwhile.

Thank you for taking the time to learn a little more about us.

Whether your family’s journey leads you here or somewhere else, I hope one thing remains true. I hope your children are surrounded by people who notice them, trust them, listen to them, make room for them to wonder, and believe they’re capable long before they even believe it themselves. Because childhood is full of extraordinary opportunities hidden inside very ordinary moments.

Sometimes all it takes is one adult willing to make space for those ordinary moments… to become something extraordinary.

Warmly,

Ms. Melissa