Act Your Age Mitchell: Following Through with Mitchell

Working with kids, especially the young ones, is both a science and an art. Each day in the classroom brings something new—a discovery made, a boundary tested, a little mind growing in ways you can't always measure. Then there’s Mitchell. Oh, he’s something else entirely. Mitchell’s the kind of kid who teaches you as much as you teach him, if not more. He’s one of those whirlwind personalities who’s always leaning into what it means to be a child. He doesn’t test boundaries just to test them—he pushes them because he’s trying to figure out where they really are. And it’s my job to hold that line steady, for his sake as much as my own.

Now, when most people picture a preschool classroom, they probably think it’s all crayons and snack time and kids saying the darndest things. It is that, partly, but it’s also a delicate dance of setting expectations and holding to them—what people like to call “following through.” And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from working with Mitchell, it’s this: a promise to a kid, even if it’s not the kind of promise they want to hear, is still a promise. And promises, man, they matter.

Take the little things—'cause they’re not as little as they seem. If I tell Mitchell, “Wait a second, I’ll change your pamper as soon as I’m finished here,” then I have to come back and do it. Not a minute later, not when I feel like it, but right after I finish what I’m doing. Because believe me, kids like Mitchell, they’ll remember. And they’ll notice if you don’t come back when you said you would.

But it’s not just about timing. How you show up for them day after day—the consistency of your words meeting your actions—that’s the real deal. Earlier this year, Mitchell’s mom and dad decided it might be good for him to try after-school care. They told him it was gonna happen, and naturally, the kid was skeptical. I mean, come on, you’re talking to a four-year-old whose whole life is measured in snack times and nap times. “After-school” might as well be a foreign concept, and he wasn’t so sure about what it would mean.

But here’s the thing—when Mitchell got to the classroom and I told him, “Hey buddy, you’re going into after-school care today,” I didn’t get to chicken out or second-guess it just because he was looking up at me with those big, wary eyes asking, “Really, Mr. Josh?” Yeah, really, little dude. It’s happening. Because if I didn’t follow through with him right then and there, if I wavered or bent just because it felt messy in the moment, the next time I said I was gonna do something? It’d be a whole lot harder for him to trust me. And trust? That’s the currency in this job. It’s the glue that holds these little moments together.

You wouldn’t believe how much kids, especially kids like Mitchell, thrive when they know the adults in their world mean what they say. It’s not about being strict for the sake of strictness—it’s about giving them a framework that lets their wild little minds and hearts flourish. Mitchell leans into that trust hard. If I tell him we’re doing music time after circle time, he’s already looking forward to it. If I tell him we’re working on sharing today and that I’m going to notice when he does it well, then you can bet he’s testing me, seeing if I’m actually gonna keep watching like I said.

And look, I get it—it’s tempting to backpedal on the harder stuff. Like when Mitchell’s having one of those defiant days, arms crossed, lip sticking out, refusing to clean up his toys after activity time. It’d be easy to just swoop in, do it for him, and move on. It’d save time, it’d save energy, and hey, my job would look a whole lot neater in the moment. But if I tell him he’s responsible for his cleanup and then bail him out because it’s inconvenient to enforce it? All I’m teaching him is that my words don’t carry weight. He doesn’t need that from me—he needs me to hold my ground, even when it's hard.

You see, following through isn’t just about maintaining authority or structure. It’s about showing these kids that the world is consistent, that their actions and choices have meaning. For Mitchell, it’s the difference between understanding that when I say, “You’re doing great, buddy,” I mean it—and understanding that when I say, “You’re gonna need to fix that behavior,” I mean that too. Both messages are important. Both messages tell him he’s safe, cared for, and seen.

I think a lot of adults forget what it was like to be a kid. How every little moment feels so immediate, so big. Mitchell reminds me of that. The stakes in his world are huge to him, and the way I show up plays into that. If I’m reliable and predictable, it helps him feel secure enough to push himself, to face new challenges, to lean into being Mitchell with all his quirky, loud, brilliant self.

And okay, here’s the truth—it’s exhausting sometimes. I’m not gonna sugarcoat it. Preschoolers, man, they’re relentless. But watching Mitchell grow, seeing him face a room full of kids during after-school care and slowly shed that skepticism to find his footing, it makes every moment of following through worth it. Because what I’m doing isn’t just keeping my word—it’s helping him build a foundation for the kind of adult he’s gonna become.

I guess what I’m trying to say is this—you set the tone for the trust people have in you, whether they’re four years old or forty. Mitchell’s teaching me that every time I decide to follow through, even when it’s tough, even when I’d rather bail out and take the easy road. And sure, I screw it up sometimes. Nobody’s perfect, right? But it’s the effort that counts because kids like Mitchell, they see that too.

Here’s my question for you, though—what kind of world would it be if every time we gave our word, we followed through on it? Not just for kids, but for the people in our lives who rely on us, who believe in our ability to show up? I think about that a lot, and maybe Mitchell does too, in his own way. You never know—kids are smarter than we sometimes give them credit for.