This afternoon found me making sugar cookie dough (to make into
shamrock cookies later) while my son "played" with his microscope. We
looked up rotifers on the internet because he was looking at some prepared
slides, and then we looked at salt and sugar and human hair and paper and a
piece of carrot that I hadn't cleaned off the table after Adam ate lunch. (Do
the benefits of doing nothing never end?) Playing with his microscope was
Adam's idea, as was what he is now doing: shooting baskets out on the driveway
in full winter gear amid the occasional snow flurries. Several times while
looking at things he didn't understand, Adam said, "I really like this
microscope,” and “I like the cross section slides the best.” That kid can make
me more furious than anyone has since my sister grew up, but he also can be
source of pure delight and wonder. I am here to take a teensy bit of credit for
that, in a sort of negative way. I think the magic of this afternoon was more
about what I did not do than what I did.
Not long ago a friend who also has a third grader remarked that I am good at fostering my children's ability to play imaginatively. I have been thinking about whether or not this is true. I was good at imaginative play when I was young, but I am not particularly good at it now. I read to my kids. Mostly, though, I do nothing in particular to make them play as they do, with microscopes and legos, inventing new board games and "talking" their various little animals and cars, making up songs and putting on shows, organizing and reorganizing football cards, making obscure (and extremely non-representational) artwork out of pipe cleaners and tape and markers and then "selling" their art in a "grocery store". So today, when I watched my son engaged in an act of spontaneous inquiry, I thought about how such a thing came about. I haven't mentioned his microscope, well, ever. In fact, I had forgotten that he had received one from his grandparents on his 8th birthday.
Although it's far too easy to forget it as I plan which summer camps and classes my children will attend in the next couple of months, as everyone I know with a third-grade boy frets about which baseball team he will be on this spring, as I listen to parents discuss who is in the advanced and enriched program and as the school administers standardized tests, my accidental secret to raising kids who come up with their own imaginary games and come downstairs with their microscope and say, "Can I do this now?" is to do nothing.
Nothing. An afternoon in which we didn't go anywhere. We didn't have any athletic events. We didn't invite anyone over or fill up the house with false stimuli in the form of TV or video games (since we don't really own a usable version of either.) After lunch, Gretchen needed a nap, and I lay down on the couch with a book, and Adam roamed about for a few minutes until he saw his microscope in his closet. That's it. That's my secret. I was doing nothing.
Nothing is pretty darn easy, I must say. I was dozing off, in fact. But nothing also takes courage and practice. I will confess that on this chilly damp Saturday, I had two back-up plans: a lego train exhibit at the library and a parade. And maybe I would have made us do one if not both if Gretchen had not clearly needed a nap after spending the night with my mom last night. And it was with reservations that I canceled both plans in favor of what my kids really needed: down time. Living in a wonderful community, as we do, where on any given weekend there are dozens of fun and/or educational activities and facilities available, the temptation is to think that if we aren't out soaking up as much stimulation as possible, I am not being the absolute best parent. But the truth of parenting is more complicated than that.
I am not advocating parents doing nothing ever. My children are generally well behaved because I am intentional and constant in ensuring they are. I try to expose them to a variety of activities and cultural events. Tomorrow we have one thing after another: church followed by birthday party followed by basketball game. My son plays a sport pretty much every season and takes piano lessons, and my daughter takes a dance class and a gymnastics class. But starting when my son was a toddler and we started to sign up for little park district classes and sports and preschool, I carefully guarded one day a week to not sign up for anything. I had an instinct that there was something as valuable about time alone as there is in engagement. I now have a day of the week when my daughter has nothing, and as much as she looks forward to Mondays because of ballet and Thursdays because of gymnastics, and as much as she enjoys preschool, she also celebrates Tuesday because she can hang around and play in her pajamas and doesn't get rushed off anywhere when she is in the middle of an imaginary drama. It isn't that all of the other things my children are signed up for are not wonderful and valuable experiences for them, it's just that I must remind myself to hold back a bit, to worry less about cramming everything into one short childhood and occasionally let what they are learning in their structured activities blossom into something that is their own. And instead of feeling guilty that I sometimes need some downtime myself, I need to remember that it's OK to say that I am going to read for a bit, or cook, or sweep the floor. It's OK to not be constantly playing with or transporting or teaching my children. Sometimes--OK, often--they are far better at engaging themselves in meaningful play and learning than any adult could be.
I need to remember this and remember to occasionally lie on the couch. Sometimes the best of everything that I can offer my children is less of everything.
Not long ago a friend who also has a third grader remarked that I am good at fostering my children's ability to play imaginatively. I have been thinking about whether or not this is true. I was good at imaginative play when I was young, but I am not particularly good at it now. I read to my kids. Mostly, though, I do nothing in particular to make them play as they do, with microscopes and legos, inventing new board games and "talking" their various little animals and cars, making up songs and putting on shows, organizing and reorganizing football cards, making obscure (and extremely non-representational) artwork out of pipe cleaners and tape and markers and then "selling" their art in a "grocery store". So today, when I watched my son engaged in an act of spontaneous inquiry, I thought about how such a thing came about. I haven't mentioned his microscope, well, ever. In fact, I had forgotten that he had received one from his grandparents on his 8th birthday.
Although it's far too easy to forget it as I plan which summer camps and classes my children will attend in the next couple of months, as everyone I know with a third-grade boy frets about which baseball team he will be on this spring, as I listen to parents discuss who is in the advanced and enriched program and as the school administers standardized tests, my accidental secret to raising kids who come up with their own imaginary games and come downstairs with their microscope and say, "Can I do this now?" is to do nothing.
Nothing. An afternoon in which we didn't go anywhere. We didn't have any athletic events. We didn't invite anyone over or fill up the house with false stimuli in the form of TV or video games (since we don't really own a usable version of either.) After lunch, Gretchen needed a nap, and I lay down on the couch with a book, and Adam roamed about for a few minutes until he saw his microscope in his closet. That's it. That's my secret. I was doing nothing.
Nothing is pretty darn easy, I must say. I was dozing off, in fact. But nothing also takes courage and practice. I will confess that on this chilly damp Saturday, I had two back-up plans: a lego train exhibit at the library and a parade. And maybe I would have made us do one if not both if Gretchen had not clearly needed a nap after spending the night with my mom last night. And it was with reservations that I canceled both plans in favor of what my kids really needed: down time. Living in a wonderful community, as we do, where on any given weekend there are dozens of fun and/or educational activities and facilities available, the temptation is to think that if we aren't out soaking up as much stimulation as possible, I am not being the absolute best parent. But the truth of parenting is more complicated than that.
I am not advocating parents doing nothing ever. My children are generally well behaved because I am intentional and constant in ensuring they are. I try to expose them to a variety of activities and cultural events. Tomorrow we have one thing after another: church followed by birthday party followed by basketball game. My son plays a sport pretty much every season and takes piano lessons, and my daughter takes a dance class and a gymnastics class. But starting when my son was a toddler and we started to sign up for little park district classes and sports and preschool, I carefully guarded one day a week to not sign up for anything. I had an instinct that there was something as valuable about time alone as there is in engagement. I now have a day of the week when my daughter has nothing, and as much as she looks forward to Mondays because of ballet and Thursdays because of gymnastics, and as much as she enjoys preschool, she also celebrates Tuesday because she can hang around and play in her pajamas and doesn't get rushed off anywhere when she is in the middle of an imaginary drama. It isn't that all of the other things my children are signed up for are not wonderful and valuable experiences for them, it's just that I must remind myself to hold back a bit, to worry less about cramming everything into one short childhood and occasionally let what they are learning in their structured activities blossom into something that is their own. And instead of feeling guilty that I sometimes need some downtime myself, I need to remember that it's OK to say that I am going to read for a bit, or cook, or sweep the floor. It's OK to not be constantly playing with or transporting or teaching my children. Sometimes--OK, often--they are far better at engaging themselves in meaningful play and learning than any adult could be.
I need to remember this and remember to occasionally lie on the couch. Sometimes the best of everything that I can offer my children is less of everything.
"And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? If then you arenot able to do so small thing as that, why do you worry about the rest?" --Luke 12:25-26
