The Meeting that Might Save Your Classroom Partnership

At any given school, somewhere in the United States, I regularly find myself having some version of this conversation:

Me: “How often do your teachers and assistants meet?”

Administrator: Silence.

Me: “They don’t meet?”

Administrator: “No.”

Not once a week. Not once every two weeks. Not even once a month.

They don’t meet.

And yet, these are the adults spending their days side by side, supporting the same children, managing the same transitions, observing the same behaviors, protecting the same classroom culture, and carrying the same work.

And every time, I feel that tiny wave of nausea that comes when you realize the adults have been set up to fail.

And then I immediately want to crawl under the nearest child-sized table.

Because asking a teacher and assistant to work together every day without meeting is a little like asking two adults to raise children together without ever talking.

And honestly, as a single parent, I feel this one deeply. Even when you are the primary adult carrying the daily logistics, emotions, decisions, and needs of children, you still need people. You need a best friend. You need a village. You need someone to think with, laugh with, vent to, reality-check with, and occasionally conspire with in the most loving, survival-based way.

No one is meant to carry the weight of tending to and supporting children alone.

Imagine never discussing the children.

Never talking about money.

Never deciding who is taking someone to soccer practice.

Never planning a vacation.

Never talking through the moment when one adult lost patience.

Never discussing how to handle discipline.

Never asking, “How can I support you better?”

Never saying, “I noticed something today, and I think we need to think about it together.”

And no classroom adult should be expected to carry the work alone either.

That would not be a partnership.

That would be survival.

And yet, in many schools and classrooms, that is exactly what we ask of teachers and assistants.

We expect them to move together, communicate beautifully, support children consistently, understand one another’s expectations, and uphold the emotional tone of the room — without giving them protected time to sit down and talk.

And, lordy, if I hear one more person say, “Well, we talk while we clean,” I may actually vomit.

Meaningful conversation does not happen while two people are on opposite sides of the room stacking chairs, spraying tables, sweeping the floor, and laminating three-part cards.

It also does not happen while adults are eating lunch together at a table near the children, quietly discussing “Little Lionel” while he is sitting three feet away eating his sandwich and baby carrots.

Side note, but a meaningful one: please stop talking about children in front of children. And while we are here, join the children. Sit with them. Eat with them. Do not isolate with the adults and have a private discussion while the children are right there. The children need to socialize with you. They need to see you modeling the grace and courtesy of sharing a meal with someone you care about.

Now, back to the real article.

Teacher-assistant meetings need to be protected.

Put them on the calendar.

Make them part of the schedule.

Defend them like you would a monthly, mandated fire drill.

Get it done.

And please, give the adults a private space to talk — even if it is your own office.

Because the time to sit together and talk about the work is where the partnership is strengthened.

When teachers and assistants meet regularly, they have the chance to talk through the partnership itself. They can connect. They can learn about one another. They can clarify roles, name what is working, discuss what feels unclear, and decide how they will support one another.

They can talk about the children — not as a list of problems to solve, but as human beings they are both learning to understand.

They can share observations.

They can notice patterns.

They can celebrate the small, beautiful moments that are so easy to miss when the day is moving quickly.

They can say, “Did you see what happened with her today?”

They can say, “I really liked how you supported him during that meltdown.”

They can say, “I wonder if we are stepping in too quickly with some of the new, younger children.”

They can say, “That moment felt hard. How should we handle it next time?”

This is not extra work.

Honestly, this is not even “work.”

This is collaboration.

This is celebration.

This is conversation.

This is how adults build trust.

Without this time, communication begins to break down.

Then joy begins to break down.

Then trust begins to break down.

Then the sense of value begins to break down.

And eventually, staff retention breaks down too.

OY!!!

In a classroom, the adult partnership matters deeply. Children feel it. The teacher feels it. The assistant feels it. The whole room feels it. And eventually, the rest of the school community begins to feel it too.

When the adults are aligned, the classroom feels steadier.

When the adults are disconnected, the classroom absorbs that too.

I know it can feel impossible to find the time. Schools are stretched. Schedules are tight. Coverage is hard. There is always something else that needs to happen.

But if we do not make time for teachers and assistants to meet, we will eventually spend that time somewhere else.

We will spend it mediating conflict.

We will spend it responding to parent concerns.

We will spend it supporting a child whose needs were noticed but never fully discussed.

We will spend it trying to repair a partnership that has slowly frayed.

And eventually, we will spend it hiring and training someone new.

Which, by the way, takes far more time than a weekly or biweekly meeting ever would.

A regular teacher-assistant meeting does not have to be complicated. It does not have to be long. It does not need a fancy agenda.

But it does need to exist.

Once a week, if possible.

Every other week, if that is what the schedule allows.

Thirty minutes of protected, uninterrupted time can change the entire tone of a classroom partnership.

And one hour?

That might change the world.

Because when adults have time to talk, they have time to understand one another.

When they have time to understand one another, they are better able to support one another.

And when they are better able to support one another, they are better able to support the children.

That is the heart of the partnership.

Not meetings for the sake of meetings.

Meetings for clarity.

Meetings for connection.

Meetings for partnership.

Meetings because the adults deserve support too.

And because children thrive when the adults around them are not just working in the same room, but truly working together.

In the Kitchen- Life Lessons Covered

On a recent, very full single-parenting day, I was already stretched thin. I had worked all day, picked my son up early for an ear doctor appointment, grilled dinner for six people, watered the garden, and finally walked back into the house around 8:30 at night.

It was just in time for Game 3: Knicks versus Spurs. My family was rooting for the Knicks, and I was secretly rooting for the Spurs (DON'T tell anyone!). I had just cracked open a cold non-alcoholic beer, put my feet up, and settled in to watch Wemby win the ball toss, as he always does, when my 10-year-old son snuggled next to me and said, "Ma, I forgot to make the cookies for the class."

Oy.

It was the night before the last day of school. His Lower Elementary class was having a potluck, and apparently, cookies were his contribution. And, I knew this — but, of course, I completely forgot about it, as I was busy doing every other thing throughout the day.

I was not thrilled. But I pulled together my best calm, supportive, and patient parent face — the one that says, Of course I would love to help you bake cookies at 8:30 at night (even though I have been waiting all day to sit down) — and said, "Okay. How can I help?"

He grabbed the laptop, went into the kitchen, found a sugar cookie recipe, and started reading off the ingredients. I helped gather a few things, and then I left. Not in a dramatic way, just in a you've got this and I'm going back to basketball way.

While my daughter cheered loudly for the Knicks with passion, confidence, and a generous amount of trash talk, my son worked in the kitchen. He was quiet, focused, and completely in it. He called me in once to help pour the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients while he stirred, and then I disappeared again, this time upstairs to take a phone call with a very special friend.

From upstairs, I could hear Alexa announcing the timer. I was half-listening to my call, half-listening for the oven, and half-worried the cookies were going to burn. Yes, that is three halves. Thanks for keeping up!

Eventually, I came downstairs and found two batches of cookies that looked underbaked. He was calm about it. He told me he had followed the recipe, but something seemed off, so he was going to put them back in the oven.

"Go brush your teeth while you wait," I said, because it was now 9:45 and we were already 45 minutes past bedtime.

Ugh.

When he came back, he reread the recipe and realized the oven should have been set to 375 instead of 350. Typical 10-year-old (or 40-year-old) mistake.

He adjusted the temperature, put the cookies back in, and waited a little longer. The cookies finished baking. They looked great. They tasted great. And most importantly, he had made them.

(I wasn't together enough to grab a photo of him making cookies — so here's one of him rolling out naan bread dough instead! And, a throwback from 2020 of him cutting a lemon at age 4.)

So — what is the point?

Self-construction. Accountability. Trial and error. Freedom. Independence. Responsibility.

All of it was right there in the kitchen.

This boy has been in the kitchen with me since he could sit up on his own. He has stirred, poured, cracked eggs, washed vegetables, cut fruit, measured ingredients, and participated in making real food become real meals. So when it was time to make cookies for his class, the kitchen was not a mystery. It was familiar.

He could search for the recipe online. Read it. He could gather, measure, mix, problem-solve, wait, notice, adjust, and try again. Mostly by himself. With just enough help to keep going, and not so much that it became my work.

That does not happen by accident. It comes from practice. From real work. From being allowed to participate in daily life. And honestly, from adults getting out of the way.

I did not hover. I did not correct every move. I did not micromanage. I did not "Are you sure?" him to death. I let him do it.

And he did.

That is Montessori in real life.

When the class potluck sign-up came home, I had asked him what he wanted to bring.

"Cookies," he said.

And that is what he made.

Because it was his class. His contribution. His work.

My job was not to take over. My job was to make space — and leave the room.

And that might be one of the hardest lessons of all — in parenting, in teaching, and in Montessori. Sometimes the adult's work is to step back just long enough for the child to discover, I can do this.

Even at 8:30 at night. Even with the oven set too low. Even when the cookies need a little more time. Even when your mother would really rather be watching basketball.