I taught my daughter at school, and it helped me learn something new about being a teacher

• I was an educator for 16 years before I had my daughter in my class.
• One day, she wasn't following my instructions and I debated what to do.

The other day, I was wrapping up a hula hooping activity with a group of pre-kindergarten students at the school where I am a PE teacher and Mindfulness Director.

I asked all the students to return their hoops to me and circle up, and most followed through, though one student kept rolling her hoop obstinately along the gym floor at a glacial pace. I repeated the instruction, but the student carried on as if the hoop were a wayward sheep that needed to be coaxed back to the flock. "Cece's not listening," a classmate observed.

This was a tricky situation. Cece happens to be my daughter.

My daughter is my student

I was an educator for 16 years before my daughter became one of my students. Over the years, I've taught thousands of kids, written copious amounts of reports, and dispensed plenty of wisdom (or at least instruction) related to physical education and mindfulness. Yet, I wasn't prepared for how much my perspective would shift from having my own daughter in class.

There is a degree of objectivity required when dealing with students. Despite my playful teaching style, it can be helpful to have a healthy distance when it comes to classroom management, assessing injuries, and writing reports. In my work environment, I try to establish clear expectations, react calmly to calamity, and offer unbiased observation of how a student is progressing. Yet at home, we might have popsicles in the bathtub, treat every boo-boo with the gravity of an appendectomy, and consider a couch-gymnastics performance always to be gold-medal worthy.

I know her better than my other students

As I watched my daughter casually flout any sense of deference a student might have for a whistle-adorned teacher, I considered my options. I could use my tried-and-true serious teacher voice and attempt to forcefully reestablish the proper hierarchy. I could use my tried-and-truly useless disappointed dad voice that would probably lead to a code-red meltdown. Or I could ignore the situation and thereby flag to all the other observing students that my daughter plays by a different set of rules.

In this brief interlude of indecision, I realized it wasn't defiance but authentic engrossment that was informing her actions. Maybe it is because I know her so well and have more access to her interiority than other students that led to this recognition, but something about the challenge of rolling the hoop was clearly captivating her.

Witnessing this absorption made me question the other times I might have misinterpreted a student's behavior and squashed their natural curiosity and exploration when that is precisely what I'm trying to stoke. It turns out that having my daughter in class has helped expand my perspective and given me a peek behind the curtain, so to speak, of the mindset of my youngest learners.

In the end, I compromised, thanking Cece for (eventually) returning the hoop and letting her know that following through on directions a little faster gives us more time for the next activity.

Ever since then, I've tried to be more thoughtful about when I bust out the serious teacher voice and when I let the exploration linger just a bit longer. I have tried to find a middle ground between expecting students to efficiently meet objectives while making space for process, differentiation, and wonder.

When a student doesn't respond right away, it can be helpful to consider what is going on for them that is leading to this lag and to try and meet them where they're at, a momentary and empathetic inquiry that happens to stem from the paternal pause my daughter inspired in me.