In pedagogy, November is the time of year talked about least, and yet it is one of the most fascinating. The October euphoria of autumn is already passing. The first snowy magic has not yet arrived. Days are short, rainy, leaden. To an adult, November usually feels gloomy — but to a Child? Exactly the opposite. To a Child, November is the month of waiting. Everything that really matters is still ahead. And that waiting carries an energy which, in pedagogy, is well worth using.
This autumn the Krasnoludki decided to take that waiting seriously. They picked up — together with Mr Screw — tools, boards and screws. And they built something none of us adults would have come up with: a feeder for Father Christmas’s reindeer.
The closer the holidays come
In our preschool there are children who count the days to Father Christmas from September. There are children who from the first of October ask, “when will we sing carols?”. There are children who in November already lay out advent calendars at home and check whether Mum has bought the gingerbread. Some Parents treat this enthusiasm with a slight impatience — “Christmas is still two months away”. But for a Child, Christmas is always already now. Because for a Child, anticipation is part of the celebration.
Developmental psychologists call this capacity “anticipation” — the ability to experience joy before an event happens. It sounds like a secondary trait, but in the development of a Child it is absolutely fundamental. Anticipation teaches the Child that not everything has to be immediate. That some things gain in value when one waits for them. That sometimes it is worth slowing down, organising, preparing — because that preparation is part of the final joy.
In a culture which offers a Child instant gratification in practically everything — film on demand, a game on the phone, a sweet on the shop shelf — the capacity for anticipation becomes rare. And yet it is one of those capacities which, in adult life, distinguishes happy people from unhappy ones. Because adult life is full of waiting periods — for an exam result, for an employer’s decision, for the birth of a child. Whoever has not learned to draw joy from the waiting itself loses an enormous part of their life.
November in our preschool is the month of anticipation in its purest form. And that is exactly why we so eagerly use it for projects like the reindeer feeder.
Where the idea came from
The idea was born in the Mędrki group, during an ordinary conversation about what they liked most about the approaching holidays. The typical answers came up — presents, gingerbread, the tree, grandparents. But one of the girls said something that stopped us in our tracks: “what I feel sorriest for is the reindeer. Father Christmas gets everything, and they only pull the sleigh and then have to look for food in the snow themselves”. The whole group went quiet. And then a real, serious discussion among six-year-olds began about whether the reindeer get anything from Father Christmas or not, where they spend the night, who feeds them.
Pedagogical instinct told us we must not waste this moment. The Children themselves, of their own initiative, had hit upon a question combining empathy, ethics, ecology, and helping the weaker. Children who talk about whether the reindeer are hungry are children learning to think about a world beyond themselves. These are precisely the moments we look for most in the preschool year.
So we decided to build something real for the reindeer — a feeder. Wooden, real, made of real boards. The kind a forester would put up in a real forest. The Children took up the idea immediately. And Mr Screw, who heard about our idea the next day, of course agreed. He brought the boards, the measuring tape, the screws and the drill. And we got started.
What actually happened
The work on the feeder lasted a few sessions spread over November. Each had its task. The first — planning. The Krasnoludki sat down with Mr Screw around a large sheet of paper and together drew what the feeder should look like. How many legs? Does it have a roof? Will the food spill out, or will it be in a container? Every decision was made together — and every Child had their say. It was a lesson in design in its purest form: idea, plan, choice of material.
The second meeting — measuring and preparing the boards. Here it was mainly the youngest in the group who worked. They took the carpenter’s folding rule (wooden, foldable, real), laid it against a board, checked whether it agreed with the plan. Another Child noted down the numbers. A third helped Mr Screw mark in pencil where the board was to be sawn. Everything very precise, very serious, very real.
The third meeting — joining. Here the older ones stepped in, those who already had experience with the power driver. Each drove their own screw, in their own spot, alone, under the careful eye of an adult. After every screw the excitement was visible: I did this. This is my place in this feeder. Each Child saved somewhere in their memory a specific point on the structure to which, ten years from now, they will be able to return and say: I drove that screw.
The fourth meeting — finishing. Painting. Checking that everything held together. A trial pour of a little hay into the feeder. And the ceremonial placing of it in the chosen spot — in our garden, under the pine tree, “where the reindeer will be able to spot it from the air”.
Why a reindeer feeder makes sense
Here we want to be honest with you. We adults know that Father Christmas’s reindeer do not exist. It is a fairy tale, a myth, a cultural construct. The reindeer that hunt for food in the snow in winter probably do not visit our district either. Which means that the feeder the children built is, in a purely utilitarian sense, unnecessary.
And yet — pedagogically — it is one of the most meaningful projects we have ever done.
Why? Because a Child who builds a feeder for invisible recipients practises something that cannot be practised when building for oneself. They practise the gesture of giving without expecting confirmation. They practise generosity that needs no audience. They practise an attitude which in adult life we call altruism.
In developmental psychology this is called “the expansion of the moral circle” — the process by which the Child gradually learns to care not only for themselves, not only for those closest, not only for the visible, but also for those they will never see and who need them. This process unfolds in preschool and early school years and is the foundation of everything we later call ethics, citizenship, social responsibility.
A feeder for Father Christmas’s reindeer is an excellent tool for this work, because it combines two things. First — the recipient is, of course, made up, but the gesture is real. The Child really drives a screw, really measures a board, really works with their hands. Second — the recipient, although made up, is emotionally real to the Child. The reindeer in their head are as real as siblings. They are building for someone who counts.
And that is exactly the point. Because the capacity to give without expecting a reward cannot be explained to a Child — it can only be experienced.
Time that cures boredom
There is one more thing about November projects that we deeply value. They take time. The feeder did not appear in one day. It came together over four meetings, spread across the whole month. Between one and the next the Child had to wait. Remember where we left off. Look forward to the next meeting.
For the brain of a five-year-old this rhythm is invaluable. In a culture which offers Children instant continuation of every story — the next episode of the cartoon, the next level of the game, the next animation in the app — the ability to hold in one’s head a project spread across time is becoming rare. And it is exactly that ability which in adult life is called persistence, self-discipline, long-term planning.
The feeder taught this almost as a side effect. Every Child who in the middle of the month remembered that “we have not yet finished the reindeer feeder” was holding a project spread across time in their head. Every Child who in the morning of the day of the fourth meeting ran into the room asking “are we painting today?” experienced anticipation — not bought, not artificial, not introduced by adults. Natural.
That is the kind of pedagogy that leaves a trace. Because what stays is not only the skills but also the pattern — “it is worth waiting, it is worth preparing, it is worth coming back to a project after a few days”. In adult life, these patterns are worth more than all the certificates in the world.
And the magic of Father Christmas?
This question always comes up when we talk about Christmas projects in preschool. Are we not spoiling the magic? Is building a reindeer feeder not at odds with telling children that Father Christmas flies in on a sleigh?
In our view — quite the opposite. The magic of Christmas is not about the Child passively waiting for a miracle. It is about the Child taking part. The Christmas tradition in Polish culture has always been active — we bake gingerbread, we buy a tree, we hang decorations, we sing carols, we prepare the table. A Child who takes part in all this feels the magic more strongly than a Child for whom Christmas is a spectacle to watch.
The reindeer feeder fits exactly into this tradition. It is active preparation. It is a gesture of inclusion. It is a way for the Child to feel that they are part of something bigger than their home.
And one more thing — a Child who builds a feeder does not ask whether the reindeer will really come. They believe in it. Because building the feeder is proof of their own faith. It is a very real, very child-like, very beautiful logic: if I have done something for them, then they will be here. There is no reason to talk a Child out of this logic.
What a Parent can do at home
November and December in a Polish home are traditionally a period of preparation. Our suggestion — invite the Child into these preparations not as a spectator but as a worker. Let them help decorate. Let them measure the tree. Let them cut out gingerbread cookies (under supervision). Let them write letters to distant relatives. Let them choose decorations. Let them do.
You can also make at home your own mini-project analogous to our feeder. A bird feeder for sparrows on the balcony. Pinecone decorations for a snowman. A little house for a Christmas gnome in a flowerpot. Every such gesture in which the Child builds something for an invisible recipient is a deposit into the account of altruism.
And one more thing — please do not rush. Let the project last two, three, four days. Let it be put aside. Let the Child have to come back to it. Hurry is the enemy of anticipation. A calm rhythm is its best ally.
What this is all for
Because our Krasnoludki walk into December with a feeder standing under the pine tree in the preschool garden. Each of them at least once a day walks up to the window and checks whether the feeder is there. Each of them, on the way to preschool in the morning, says to their Parents: “we built a feeder for Father Christmas’s reindeer”. Each of them walks into December with a sense of pride and readiness.
That is the pedagogy of holidays in which we believe. Not in the spectacle. Not in consumption. Not in passive waiting for presents. In the active, real, physical, meaningful inclusion of the Child in the preparation for something bigger than themselves.
And when, in December, the first snow falls on our preschool yard, the children will say — and we know this, because it has happened more than once — “look, some tracks on the path. Maybe the reindeer flew in to the feeder?”. And whether those tracks were left by a squirrel, by a cat or by no one at all — at that moment matters not at all. Because the Child already knows. Has already built. Has already given.
Father Christmas — come. The Krasnoludki are ready.