Recently, I found an old exercise book filled with observations from my preschool days in 1992 and 1993. Page after page of handwritten notes. No photographs. No digital portfolios. No learning outcome codes. No carefully designed templates.
Just educators recording what they noticed about me throughout the day. There were observations about my friendships, my imagination, my conversations, my frustrations and my developing independence.
Some made me laugh out loud. Others made me reflect on the child I was and the adult I’ve become. But what struck me most wasn’t the handwriting or the age of the book. It was how much these simple observations revealed about who I was as a person.
And it made me wonder whether, somewhere along the way, we’ve complicated documentation so much that we’ve started losing sight of why we do it in the first place.
The Little Girl Who Had Something to Say
Apparently, I was quite an outspoken preschooler. In one observation, I told an educator: “Please go out of this room, I can’t concentrate with you watching me.”
When the educator continued to stay nearby, I apparently added: “Well, you can stay, but I won’t do any work cause you make me nervous.”
I laughed when I read that. But then I thought about what the observation actually revealed. Here was a child communicating her need for space, privacy and independence. She was expressing how an adult’s presence affected her ability to concentrate.
Today, we might describe that as agency, self-advocacy or an emerging understanding of personal boundaries. But my educator didn’t need to use any of those terms to capture the significance of the moment. She simply recorded what I said.
And more than thirty years later, those words still communicate something important about the child I was.
When Observation Reveals Thinking
Another observation recorded me completing a puzzle. A child nearby attempted to place a piece where it didn’t belong. I apparently explained: “That doesn’t fit there it’s the wrong colour & too big.”
It seems like such a small moment. But think about what it reveals. I wasn’t simply completing a puzzle. I was comparing size, recognising colour, reasoning about why something didn’t fit and communicating my thinking to another child. My educator captured the learning through my own words.
There was no need to write a paragraph explaining that I was demonstrating problem-solving skills, mathematical thinking, language development and social interaction. The observation already showed it. And that’s what I find so interesting.
Sometimes we become so focused on interpreting children’s learning that we forget how powerful it can be to simply capture what they say and do.
Documentation Should Help Us Understand Children
As early childhood educators, we observe children for many reasons. We want to understand their interests, strengths, relationships, capabilities, identities and developing ideas. We want to notice changes over time. We want to recognise when a child might need additional support.
And we want to use what we learn to make thoughtful decisions about our teaching. But somewhere within the demands of programming, assessment, digital platforms and accountability, documentation can begin to feel like something we produce rather than something we use.
We photograph an activity. We write a description. We link it to learning outcomes. We upload it to a platform. And then we move on to the next one. Of course, there are many educators using documentation thoughtfully and meaningfully today. Digital documentation can also offer wonderful opportunities to involve families and share children’s learning.
The problem isn’t technology. The problem arises when the production of documentation becomes more important than the thinking behind it.
Are we documenting because an observation will help us understand a child, or because we feel we need another observation to upload?
Not Every Observation Needs to Be a Learning Story
One of the things I love about these old records is how varied they are. Some entries are just a few sentences. Others document extended conversations. Some focus on friendships or emotional experiences. Others record interests, emerging skills or changes noticed over several weeks.
There is no attempt to make every observation look the same. And that feels important. A meaningful observation might be a child’s exact words. It might be a brief note about a friendship. It might be a question a child asks. It might be a pattern an educator has noticed over time. It might even be something an educator doesn’t yet understand.
Not every observation needs to become a polished narrative. Not every experience needs a photograph. And not every moment needs to be immediately translated into curriculum language.
Sometimes the most useful documentation is a few lines written while the moment is still fresh.
The Value of Following a Child Over Time
As I continued reading my preschool records, I noticed something else. My educators weren’t just documenting isolated experiences. They were noticing patterns. They recorded the things I enjoyed, the situations that frustrated me, the relationships that mattered to me and the ways my confidence and capabilities changed.
There were notes about how I approached puzzles, how I used language to negotiate with others and how I became increasingly independent. One educator even wrote that my stories were so convincing she sometimes wondered whether they were real or imaginary. Apparently, I had developed a way of distinguishing between the two.
When I was telling an imaginary story, I might explain: “Mummy and Daddy don’t know only I know.”
But when I wanted the educator to believe something was true, I would say: “It’s true really, you can ask mummy.”
I love this. Not because it demonstrates a particular developmental milestone, but because it captures my personality, imagination and growing awareness of how stories work. It also shows that the educator was listening closely enough to notice the distinction. That is the kind of insight that comes from knowing a child well.
And it is the kind of knowledge that should inform our curriculum decisions.
The Most Important Learning Isn’t Always in the Planned Activity
One observation in particular made me think about the importance of documenting children’s conversations. My educator recorded a discussion that happened while children were colouring Aboriginal flags. During the activity, I made an inaccurate comment about Aboriginal people and what they wore.
Rather than simply dismissing the conversation, my educator recorded it and later attempted to extend my understanding by sharing a book and discussing contemporary Aboriginal life. What makes this especially interesting is that I am Aboriginal myself. Looking back, the observation offers a glimpse into my developing understanding of culture and identity.
It raises questions about the representations I had encountered and how I understood my own Aboriginality. But from a documentation perspective, it also demonstrates something important. The most significant learning opportunity wasn’t necessarily the flag-colouring activity. It was the conversation that emerged.
My educator recognised that my words revealed something about my thinking. And she attempted to respond. That’s the cycle of observation, reflection and intentional teaching in action. Not because it was written in a particular format.
But because the observation informed what happened next.
What Happens After We Document?
This is the question I think we need to keep coming back to. What happens after we write an observation?
- Does it change the way we see a child?
- Does it influence the experiences we provide?
- Does it help us recognise a developing interest, a misconception or a relationship that needs support?
- Does it prompt us to have a conversation with a family?
- Does it help us reflect on our own assumptions or teaching practices?
- Or does it simply sit in a digital portfolio, waiting to be read at the end of the term?
Documentation should be part of an ongoing process of noticing, interpreting, responding and reflecting. It should help us make decisions. And sometimes those decisions might be quite small. We might offer a different resource. Ask a new question.
Create space for a friendship to develop. Reconsider how we’re supporting a child’s independence. Or recognise that something we assumed about a child wasn’t quite right. The value of documentation isn’t measured by its length, appearance or complexity.
It’s measured by what it helps us understand and what we do with that understanding.
What I’d Keep, and What I’d Change
I don’t want to romanticise early childhood education in the 1990s. Some of the language in my records reflects developmental and deficit-focused ways of thinking that I would question today. There are assumptions about behaviour and relationships that deserve a more critical lens.
And contemporary approaches to assessment, children’s rights, cultural safety and inclusion have brought important improvements to our practice. I wouldn’t suggest we simply return to the way documentation was done thirty years ago.
But I do think there is something worth reclaiming.
- The simplicity.
- The attentiveness.
- The willingness to record children’s exact words.
- The recognition that everyday conversations can reveal significant learning.
And the understanding that documentation is a tool for educators to think with, not simply a product to produce.
A Question Worth Asking
Reading my preschool records has been an unexpected gift. Not because they contain beautiful photographs or carefully crafted learning stories. But because they allow me to hear my childhood voice. I can see my imagination, humour, confidence, frustrations and emerging understanding of the world.
And I can see the educators who were paying attention. More than thirty years later, those handwritten notes still tell me something meaningful about who I was.
Which makes me wonder: If the children in our care opened their learning records thirty years from now, what would they discover about themselves?
Would they see a collection of activities they participated in? Or would they recognise their own voices, relationships, questions, ideas and identities? Would they see evidence that someone really knew them?
Perhaps that’s the question we should be asking before we write our next observation. Not simply, “What learning outcome can I link this to?”
But: “What have I learned about this child, and what am I going to do with that knowledge?”
