Smear, Wad, And Crumple

Our art table was dead. Earlier, there had been several kids drawing with oil pastels, but they'd moved on and no one had come to take their place, so I sat in one of the many empty seats and began to doodle. In the Pre-3 class, this always draws a crowd. In the 5's class, a child or two might slow down to peer over my shoulder, but otherwise I'm ignored. In the 3-5's class, however, I can count on a few to come to see what Teacher Tom is up to, then stick around to make a little something of their own. In other words, the older they get, the less they seem to need me, which is exactly as it should be.

This was the 3-5's and one of the boys came to watch. 

"What are you drawing, Teacher Tom?"

"I'm thinking of drawing a picture of you . . . I guess you have sort of a square head."

"No! Round!"

"Right, round." I drew a circle on my paper, then peered back into his face, "It looks like you have . . . Let's see, one, two . . . You have two eyes."

"Yes, two eyes. And I have one nose and . . . five mouths!" We decided to give him a happy mouth, a sad one, an angry one, a surprised one, and a silly one. This process had drawn another boy to put his elbows on the table to watch.

I said, "Now I'm going to draw something else."

"What?"

He's lately been regaling the class about NASCAR, so I said, "I'm going to draw a race car."

"Draw Jeff Gordon in the number 24!"

"I've never seen Jeff Gordon in the number 24."

"He's fast."

"Does he go fast around a track?"

"Yes."

I picked up a pastel and began to "drive" it on the paper, creating an oval, taking a second, third and forth lap. "That's Jeff Gordon driving on the track."

"He goes faster than that."

I sped up, going faster and faster and faster, making soft motor noises, until the paper beneath my hand began to smear, wad and crumple. The boys laughed.

I said, "Race you," which has been our racing fan's primary invitation to play these past few months. I slid the box of crayons his way, saying, "Grab a car and let's go."

We started our engines side-by-side, "On your mark, get set, go!" and we were off, racing madly until our paper was smeared, wadded, and crumpled.

"Again!"

This time the second boy wanted race as well, so he chose his color and we were off, breaking all known speed records for the three man smear, wad, and crumple. I tried to sit out the next heat, but without a firm hand holding the paper in place, at least initially, the race was over before it began. I was needed in another part of the classroom, so I slid the game over to Mason's mom Michelle who was our art parent and the two boys went with it.

I returned several minutes later to find a third boy had joined the group and they were racing like mad, heat after heat of smear, wad, and crumple. Michelle was still playing with them, still holding their paper, still driving her own "car," but it was the boys who were directing the action. A big part of this game was the jostling, the banging of arms and fists as the cars sped around the track, foreheads often close enough together that they touched. It was a game comprised of bursts of frenzy, followed by declarations of victory, a cursory examination of the "art" they'd co-created, then calls for another go.

With each successive round, Michelle said a little less, she was a little less active in her participation as the boys more and more made it their game, until there came a round when her only involvement was holding the paper in place. By now the boys had taken over, "On your marks, get set, go!"

Finally, she let go, and one of the boys, apparently without even knowing he was doing it, put his own hand in place of hers, taking over the vital role of holding the paper down, no longer needing needing an adult, which is exactly as it should be.

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Wisdom And Mastery

Last week, our Pre-K class used glue guns to make a robot prop for our upcoming play. These are kids who have been using these tools on a regular basis for the past two years and it showed. I was struck by how competently they handled these potentially dangerous tools, as evidenced by the fact that they were all focused on the project before them, rather than the tool in their hand. They've come a long way from the time when the mere act of pulling the trigger and directing the hot glue took their full concentration.

Humans are driven to use tools to imprint their visions on the world. Almost everything we make or do involves, at some level a tool, the mastery of which requires practice. In preschool, we need ample opportunity to sort of mess around with a wide variety of tools like wire, scissors, hole punches, hammers, paint brushes, saws, glue guns, pencils, screwdrivers, knives, and paper clips. We need to get our hands on brooms, clothes pins, drills, shovels, rulers, pulleys, trowels, staplers, and rakes. As humans we have being alone, we have talking face-to-face; for everything else we use tools.

Usually, we use our glue guns on individual projects around our work bench or a table in a more controlled manner, but the nature of this group project required that we be on the floor, which gave us the extra challenge of working on a 360-degree project while tethered by the glue gun cords. This was something new for the children as they at first found themselves getting wrapped up. With adult help, however, we came up with the solution of putting the tools down when we moved our bodies, which meant giving up on the idea of "my" glue gun or "your" glue gun, but rather making them "our" glue guns to pick up and put down as needed to create our robot.

As I watched these kids create together, using their glue guns side-by-side, a couple of the guys consulted with one another, decided the robot needed eyes, and together determined what part from our collection of junk they would use. One applied the glue while the other positioned the piece of garbage they'd agreed upon in the place they'd agreed upon, then stepped back to admire their work, all while holding the glue guns safely in their fists, under control, confident, fully in the moment of creation.

As usual, we had a bucket of water nearby to sooth any burns, but if it was used, it was done with so little fuss that it didn't rise to the level of adult attention; they cared for themselves, then got back to work. I did spy one boy bent over the bucket. When I asked if he'd burned himself he answered, "No," then showed me he had glue on his finger. I said, "That must have hurt," and he answered, "No, it's just stuck. The water makes it easier to get off," revealing a new level of wisdom and mastery.

But it was more than glue guns that have been mastered by this group. They worked for a good half hour, shoulder-to-shoulder, on a project of their own, bickering a bit perhaps, but always with the objective of making space for both the bodies and ideas of one another, these good friends with whom we've shared three full years as classmates.

One guy who had not been part of the early stages of the project, joined the group. Before leaping in, he spent some time studying what had already been done, asking questions, "What's this part?" "Is this the front?" and making assertions, "This is the tummy," "The motor is in here." Then he got to the "eyes."   He pointed at them, and unaware that he was addressing the two artists who had previously named and affixed the eyes, said, "These are the buttons that turn it off and on."

This was a moment that could have lead to conflict. The boys would have been well within their rights to assert, "No, we put that on! Those are the eyes!" Instead, they looked at one another as if checking to see how they ought to respond, seeking to ally themselves in their reply, then one of them turned to answer with a friendly shrug, "Sure, they could be buttons." And the other, his words nearly overlapping those of his friend, added, "That's okay, they can be that."

It was a moment that could have lead to conflict, but it didn't. Instead it lead to agreement. These kids have been playing, working, and living together for the past three years and it showed. I was stuck by how competently they handled this potentially inflammatory situation, as evidenced by the fact that they were focused on their friend, rather than the project before them. They've come a long way from the time when the mere act of being "right" and defending what's "mine" took their full concentration: a new level of wisdom and mastery.

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Just Right Risk

When the teacher can't make it to class in a cooperative school, the parent-teachers take over. Last Thursday and Friday I was traveling, so I left our 5's class in those capable hands. When I arrived on Monday, I found an elaborate construction in and around the laurels adjacent to the concrete slide. It was one of those builds the 5's have been creating this year, involving most of our larger loose parts, such as planks, gutters, tires, pipes, our home made ladder, and a large wooden crate.

My initial reaction was, That could be hazardous, but left it in place as I had more pressing things to deal with having been gone for a few days, figuring I would investigate it with the kids when we were later outdoors and let them tell me about what they had made.

I later learned it was a tree house, and one of the boys immediately walked me through the intricacies of the construction, explaining how they had created it and what each part represented. He pointed to one plank in particular, saying, "That's the important one. If somebody moves that, the whole thing will fall down." As I took my tour, I tested it's stability with my hands and feet and found, despite it's apparent slap-dash construction, that it was indeed a passably stable structure.

What I was most impressed by, however, was how this group of boys played on it. There was none of the daredevil jumping and swinging and boundary testing one so often sees on playgrounds featuring typical climbers that come from a box, the sort of play made necessary to add a sense of thrill to things that have otherwise had their sense of thrill designed out of them by our tendency to over-protect children. 

Like it or not, kids need risk in their lives, the chance to test themselves. It's an aspect common to children's play in all societies, in all circumstances, throughout history. In fact, this kind of risk-taking play is not even species specific: it's found in all mammals and many birds. One of the fundamental evolutionary characteristics of youth is to seek out "just right risk," and if the opportunity is not there, as it so often isn't in the play spaces we set aside for children, they create it for themselves, and then it's very often not of the "just right" variety.

Not surprisingly, one of the main characteristics of the children's play in their tree house was caution. As they moved up and down and around the structure, they moved deliberately, testing each hand and foot hold as they went. They knew, without being told, to take turns, to not push and shove, to give themselves and others enough space and time to explore. Whenever someone challenged themselves by trying out the angled platform (formerly the base of a wooden rocking horse) they'd wedged amongst the branches, the highest point in their construction, the others would gather around below, coaching, keeping an eye on the undergirding, cautioning, almost like an impromptu safety team. Often, someone would call out, "Stop!" then take a moment to make the structure more secure before giving their friend the go-ahead. In fact, as they played it was hard not to think of all of this as "safety play," as they continuously sought to improve and explore their tree house.

It was fascinating to watch the individual kids find the "just right risk" for themselves, within the context of a spontaneous team project. Some spent the entire time buzzing around the base, never really moving beyond ground level, finding plenty of challenge traversing this steep slope, the concrete slide, and the building materials. Others tested out the branches above the construction, moving higher into the trees, perhaps discovering places the group might want to go in the future.

Another striking characteristic of the play was that while it was robust and physical, full of the usual quibbling, these 5 year old boys, an age group notorious for "loosing it," maintained the sort of emotional and physical even-keel required for this sort of play. There might have been arguments, but they didn't go beyond a few cross words. As we often discuss around the work bench while engaged with hammer, saws, or glue guns, risky things and strong emotions simply don't go together. We didn't need to remind them of this: it was built into their play, just as was an ever-present sense of caution. 

There were two adults always nearby, closely supervising this play. And while we were physically near we mostly stayed out of it, "loitering with intent," and the children, as children always do when left to explore their world according to their own instincts, found their group and individual levels of "just right risk."

Pretty cool stuff. The stuff of childhood. This is the kind of play we owe our children.

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Upon A Foundation Of Play

Education is not preparation for life; education is life itself. ~John Dewey

At the end of the day as I go through stacks of the artwork we make at Woodland Park, I often find a painting or two that were clearly created by the hand of a grown-up. There are some, I know, who would see that as evidence that an adult has been directing the kids, or some who would fret that this exhibition of "superior skill" will somehow intimidate a child or otherwise impede or unduly influence his artistic production.

I see it as evidence that one of our parent-teachers was playing with the kids, which is one of the things I ask of them.

As a cooperative preschool, our classroom is more heavily populated with adults than most and they are there to learn every bit as much as the kids. In fact, each of them are enrolled in North Seattle Community College as students earning parent education credits. People often ask me, "Sure, a play-based curriculum is great for young children, but what about as they get older? Doesn't there have to be more direct instruction?" 

I see adults learning through play, through experience, through creative exploration every day. I see them learning through "life itself."

I've been a teacher here now for 13 years. I've taken a few early childhood classes, but hold no specialized degree in education (in fact, my degree is in journalism). My primary training for this job was the apprenticeship I received while working for 3 years alongside experienced teachers and parent educators as my daughter went through her cooperative preschool, doing exactly what the parents in my classes are now doing: playing with the kids and observing how these more practiced adults played with them. Three of my own former parent-teachers have now gone on to become full-fledged teachers in their own right.

When I look around at the 40 or so cooperative schools in our system, I mostly see teachers who started, as I did, as parents in their own child's cooperative. When I look at the dozen or so parent educators who work with us, I see the same. Of course, many of them have gone on to secure degrees, and even those who don't, like me, have taken traditional classes, attended workshops, and continue to read, but the foundation for all of us was play. 

And it continues every day as we allow ourselves to explore with the children. We use the same paints, brushes and paper and sit in the same little chairs in the same cheery rooms, playing, but of course we're not learning the same things. Instead, we're learning exactly what we need to learn as we struggle and experiment and fail and succeed. That's the beauty of a play-based curriculum: everyone learns exactly what they need to learn.

And that's why, when I come across the paintings made by adults, I examine them as I would a child's, looking for clues of what they have learned that day and what I might be able to help them learn tomorrow.

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There's No Other Way

Over the past four days I've travelled across the wide part of the North American continent, from Seattle to Prince Edward Island, where I presented at the Early Childhood Development Association of PEI's Spring Conference, and back. The time I spent at the conference and on the island was wonderful, my hosts friendly and organized, the participants engaged and intelligent, the locality charming, and I can't help but feel that the children of PEI are lucky to be growing up in such a place, but it was an air travel experience from the netherworlds. I started on Thursday with six flights booked: there were two outright flight cancellations along the way, a total of 9 hours of delay, and I wound up flying on only two of the original six flights arriving at home a half a day later than planned. When I wasn't running full speed through concourses, I was just sitting there, waiting.

Fortunately, I'd packed Peter Gray's book Free To Learn, and in the spirit of making lemonade, finally got around to reading it after having had it on my bedside table for months. There is so much to love about this book, not the least of which being that there are more than 30 pages of notes, bibliography, and index at the back, indicating the depth of Mr. Gray's research, but also rendering this otherwise concise manifesto something that won't just sit on the shelf: I'll be able to use it as I try in my way to make the world a better place for children.

I don't know if I'll get around to a full review of the book, but I do highly recommend it. In fact, as the Woodland Park Community Schools make plans to launch a new kindergarten, I am going to urge our entire planning committee to read it.

The thing that's been most on my mind is this:

. . . (P)lay always involves rules of some sort, but all players must freely accept the rules, and if rules are changed, then all players must agree to the changes. That is why play is the most democratic of all activities. In social play (play involving more than one player), one player may emerge for a period as the leader, but only at the will of the others. Every rule a leader proposes must be approved, at least tacitly, by all of the other players. The ultimate freedom in play is the freedom to quit. Because the players want to keep the game going, and because they know that other players will quit and the game will end if they are not happy, play is a powerful vehicle for learning how to please others while also pleasing oneself.

We always speak of play as a freely chosen activity, but before reading this, I'd not given much thought to the flip side: the freedom to walk away. As I've contemplated this concept, while sitting bleary-eyed in airports, and how it guides much of what happens as the children play at Woodland Park, I've also asked myself the question: If children are free to walk away from play, does the majority also have the right to exclude others?

As a teacher in a play-based school, this is usually much more of an issue than children voluntarily quitting, which is, as Gray describes in his many examples, typically handled quite well by the children without adult intervention through their innate ability to compromise. But, I find myself almost always involved when it comes to exclusion. Sometimes the exclusion is justified. For instance, if one child repeatedly hits or injures another as part of the play, or refuses to abide by the democratically agreed upon rules of the game, it's only fair, I think that the others can elect to demand exclusion. On the other hand, when the exclusion is arbitrary, such as being based solely upon gender or the color one's hair, that is the sort of unfairness that a democratic society cannot tolerate. This is the tightrope we walk every day as the unelected executive branch of our little play-based democracies.

The only legitimate way to handle it, of course, is through conversation, but it remains one of the core challenges of democracy as the basic rights of minorities can quite easily be impinged by the rule of majority, even as majority rules (and ideally something approaching consensus) stands at the center of how our democratic societies are organized. Each year, usually quite early in the year, the children bump up against this issue, and legislate some version of the rule "You can't say you can't play," which is our way to protect minority rights, but as I've written before, that's just a starting point because there are, in fact, many times when you can say you can't play.

These are complicated things, hard things, we work on as we learn to build and live in a community, for both adults and children. As Gray points out, we are evolutionarily designed for this, but that doesn't mean it's easy. Indeed, it's the hardest thing of all. The key is dialog, of course, the kind of dialog that many of us don't like: icky, emotional, and devoid of the comfort of blacks and whites, but if we're going to live together, there's no other way. 

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Spoiling The Kids

After a full day of travel yesterday and a full day of presenting ahead of me, I'm not going to get a new post up today. Instead, I thought I'd re-share one of my most well-read posts of all time. I hope you like it.

*****

Whenever I write or talk about treating children as if they are fully formed humans and not just incomplete adults, like I did yesterday, there are some who ask me about (or even accuse me of) "spoiling" the kids. They then go on to tell me horror stories about how permissive parents have let their rotten kids take over their lives, bossing them around, dominating their households, terrorizing their peers, and frustrating their teachers.

It's hard, I think, for some people to understand the world without a hierarchical framework: someone has to be the boss -- if it's not the parent, it's the child. When I suggest paying attention to the words we use with children, avoiding the language of command, and instead choosing statements of fact which allow children to practice taking responsibility for their own actions, I understand how some people fear that it will become a slippery slope down which the whole carefully constructed family org chart will slide. I understand how it might seem that if you're not bossing your child, she will take advantage, gain the upper hand, and assume the scepter. To believe this takes a view of human nature that I've not found to be true, but I understand it.

So let me state right here: I'm all for fewer "spoiled" children in the world (although I'd like us to retire that label along with "bully," "aggressive," and "shy").  These children are characterized as self-centered and demanding, inconsiderate of others, see their needs as most important, and will resort to often extreme behavior to get their way. These are not happy children and they tend to grow into unhappy adults who struggle with relationships, have a hard time holding jobs, and are generally miserable to be around.

The common wisdom, it seems, is that these behaviors come from not enough "tough love;" from parents who are afraid of their children, and are too namby-pamby to put their foot down, an approach popularized by such pop-psychology sensations as Dr. Phil. Sadly, this is not what psychologists who actually do research have found. So-called "spoiled" behaviors," in fact, result from things like not enough proactive attention from parents, not expecting children to do things for themselves, and a lack of clear limits, not a dearth of bossy parents.

Not enough proactive attention

The best parenting advice I ever got was from my mother, who said, "All children want is attention. If you don't give it to them, they'll take it." And indeed children, from the moment they are born, are designed to get attention from the adults around them. From a biological point of view, this makes perfect sense: they are born utterly incapable of keeping themselves alive, except to the degree that they can get adult humans to feed, clothe, and protect them. This instinct doesn't go away as they get older. When they feel ignored, they correct that problem through tantrums, whining, clinging, and other "spoiled" behaviors. They don't really care if the attention they get is negative or positive, frankly, they are just biologically driven to get your attention. So for your own sanity (and to avoid "spoiling" your child), I'd suggest proactively giving them the kind of attention you choose, because otherwise they'll choose it for you and you're probably not going to like it.

Doing too much for your kids

Awhile back, I met a woman who works in the admissions department at the University of Washington here in Seattle. She told me that increasingly freshmen are showing up on campus without such basic life skills as using can openers, cooking on a stovetop, and operating a washing machine. She said the problem is so bad that many universities have had to institute remedial life skills classes. Instead of learning to do things for themselves, "spoiled" kids have turned to mastering the skills required to get things done for them, which will often look a lot like being self-centered, demanding, and even tyrannical. So for your own sanity (and to avoid "spoiling" your child), I'd suggest teaching him to do as much for himself as his age and abilities will allow.

Lack of clear limits

As Goethe wrote, "It is within limitations that he first shows himself the master." This is where we all agree, and we can all point to examples of parents, who in the sincere interest of teaching their children independence or giving them "freedom," err on the side of a household in which anything goes. This is not a good environment for children. It tends to make them feel nervous, uncertain, and to generally demonstrate "spoiled" behaviors.

Where we tend to disagree is in how we create those limitations and how we work with those limitations.  I suppose the traditional model is for parents to lay down the law and create a system of punishments for violations. It doesn't have to be that way. In our school, for instance, all of the rules are made by the children themselves, through a process of consensus. In a decade of doing it this way, the adults have never found the need to dictate rules beyond those the children create, indeed, if anything we find we need to moderate many of their more extreme legislative efforts. Our process is one that many of Woodland Park's families have adopted in their own homes, keeping a running list of family rules on the refrigerator door to refer to as needed.

Do children break the rules? Of course they do. The adults, however, don't need to then punish them to do the job of teaching about limitations. Instead our job as adults is to point to the list of rules and say, "You and your friends agreed . . ."

So what do you do if a child keeps breaking a rule?  Certainly there's a consequence, a punishment.  If we do that, if we resort to punishment we put the focus on the punishment and the punisher, rather than where we want it to be, on the behavior. Instead we do what makes sense, we just keep reminding them until they remember on their own. No one would think of punishing a child for not, say, remembering her A-B-C's; we would patiently keep working with her until she got it. Why should teaching about limits be any different?

In other words, children aren't "spoiled" because they haven't been sufficiently bossed around by adults.

Creating a world of facts, instead of a world of commands

A mistake many of us make (and one of the things that drives critics of this approach crazy) is to think that all of this means that everything is open to negotiation, that our child gets to decide such things as when to get dressed, whether or not they go to the doctor, or where the family will eat dinner. In our effort to be super parents, we forget that we adults are fully formed humans as well. Our opinions, needs, and emotions are not made lesser because we seek to honor those of the child, but are rather equal, and to the degree that they diverge from those of our child, must often take precedence.

There are also realities of which we are aware that our children are not: schedules, for instance, courtesy to others, safety. Sometimes we must insist that we know best, but that doesn't mean we need to use the language of command. Statements of fact are not commands, such as:

     "It's time to go."

     "What you said hurt her feelings."

     "If you do that you might die."

I statements that convey our opinions or feelings are also statements of fact, such as:

     "I don't want to be late."

     "I feel sad when she's crying."

     "I don't want you to die."

Factual statements about the child's behavior can also be very powerful, such as:

     "You seem upset that it's time to go."

     "You sounded angry when you said that to her."

     "If you keep doing that you might die and that will probably hurt."

And factual statements about your own responsibilities are also important, such as:

     "I can't stay because daddy is expecting us."

     "I can't let you say hurtful things to her."

     "I can't let you cross the street by yourself."

Creating a world of facts instead of a world of commands gives children the opportunity to come to their own conclusions about their behavior, to make their own decisions about right and wrong, or to at least understand why this is one of those times when they don't get what they want. These kinds of experiences lead to a sense of responsibility, empathy, and confidence, characteristics that are the opposite of those that characterize a "spoiled" child.

Everyone's goal is a child who understands her own emotions, treats others with respect, and knows how to assess her own risks. These are all vital skills to success in life. When we boss our kids into these behaviors, we're not giving them a chance to learn anything we want them to learn; we're just forcing them to do something because "I said so." It's effective in the moment, but it teaches nothing except, perhaps, obedience -- a very dangerous habit in adulthood. When we, on the other hand, help our children see the "facts" surrounding their behaviors and choices, we allow them to actually practice these skills. Of course, they will make mistakes, just the way a carpenter has to hit his thumb a few times before he learns to use a hammer, and it might be frustrating or embarrassing for you as the parent, but experience is the only way anyone ever learns anything.

I know it sounds like a lot of work. It is, indeed, much easier to boss people around. It's hard to overcome deeply rooted habits of thought.  But it does get easier with practice. And the results are worth it.

That's how to treat your child with respect without spoiling him.

I put a lot of time and effort into this blog. If you'd like to support me please consider a small contribution to the cause. Thank you!

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Life Long, All Encompassing

Some time ago, I wrote about a conversation with Audrey on the topic of playing. Specifically, I asked her to teach me how to play.

Since then, I've been intrigued with the question, asking dozens of children variations on the theme: Do you know how to play? What is playing? Who taught you how to play?

In my ongoing quest to stop "curating" curriculum materials, I pulled out a box of theater lighting gel scraps a parent donated several years ago. The kids got a kick out of changing their perspective by holding it over their faces to change the color of their world.

I suppose it won't surprise anyone to learn that I've met with mostly dead air. It seems to be an interesting question to them, one to which they all instantly claim to know the answer, but when it comes to putting it into words, they've been hanging thoughtfully in their swings or pausing momentarily in their pirate games, apparently at a loss. None of them have gone beyond Audrey's definition: "You have to throw things up."

We were playing with some of the many boxes we still have left over after our recent move, many of which are produce boxes with these large rectangular holes in the bottom. I picked one of them up and pretended to be watching the kids on TV.

I think it was Aristotle who asserted that happiness is unlike all the other emotions in that the moment you recognize it, it goes away. I'm starting to wonder if play is like that as well. Each time I ask a child about play, she stops playing to ponder. When she seems stumped, I've been prompting, "Are you playing right now?" and the answer has always been, "No." My original question seems to somehow pull them out of it, almost as if by asking about play, I'm making it vanish.

Soon the kids were making their own TVs by taping sheets of gel over the holes.

The great progressive educator and theorist John Dewey famously wrote, "Education is not preparation for life; education is life itself," helping us understand that learning is a life-long, all-encompassing thing, impossible to limit to a set of subjects, divided up under headings like math and art and reading and science and PE.  I'm coming to see through the children's responses to my questions that play is like that as well, something that is perhaps simply too large and all inclusive for the "cocktail party" conversations I've been trying to have with them. Indeed, I will try to one-up Dewey this morning by asserting that it's not education, but play that is life itself.

We've not used these tape dispensers much and they were a struggle at first as the kids figured out how to get them to do what they want. I sat with them at first coaching, but trying to avoid physically helping them pull off a piece of tape, then tearing it across the "saw" part. There was a great deal of frustration, but I'm sure if I asked them, they would still insist that they were playing. I sometimes forget that every emotion in the world is a necessary part of play.

I think that may be why I find myself so passionately and almost instinctively committed to pushing back against those who seek to turn schools into trivia factories, places where rote memorization and teaching to the test holds the central place. I agree with Edward Hallowell when he writes, "The opposite of play is not work, it's rote," and if, as I'm coming to see, play is life, then rote must therefore be a kind of death.

Later the gel scraps found their way over to the table where we were playing with Woodkins dolls. When the pieces were too large, the children again struggled with the process of folding this awkward material down to size.

I'm not going to stop asking the children about play just yet, because the moment I stop pestering them with my questions, they all fall quite readily back into life itself, not seeming any the worse for wear from having taken a moment to think about something too large to really ponder; at least not while right in the midst of living.

Education, play, life: are they really synonyms? I'm tending to think so.

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