"When is Wrestling Time?"

One of the most universal play activities across any number of species is "play fighting," or as we sometimes call it, "rough-and-tumble play."

The research available on this type of play is even more limited than on other types of play, but it appears that it represents some 20 percent of all spontaneous, self-selected play observed on playgrounds around the world and, apparently, throughout history.

If you view play as our instinct to educate ourselves made manifest, and I do, then it's obvious that this type of play exists and persists for good reason, even as our society increasingly frowns upon it. Of course, fear of legal liability in case of injury -- the scourge of modern childhood -- is often blamed, but it goes beyond that. There are far too many adults who cannot tolerate any injury at all, no matter how minor, and even if they have no intention of resorting to the courts, the fuss an anxious parent can make over a split lip or scraped knee leads many of us to ban rough and tumble play altogether. Then there is the school-ish value placed on so-called "classroom management," a term most often used to mean orderly, quiet, and on-schedule. There is no room in a managed classroom for spontaneous anything. And then, of course, there is the whole "fighting" aspect of it. In our adult world, fighting is generally considered to be a bad thing, be it in the context of work, marriage, or politics, so we ignorantly assume it's a bad thing for kids as well.

In childhood play, however, play fighting (or, if you prefer, rough-and-tumble play) stands right at the core of learning, not just for humans, but for every other mammal ever studied. Granted, the research is thin, but what has been done seems to support the idea that play fighting is how we practice social skills and prepare ourselves to deal with the unexpected. According to David Toomy, author of the book The Kingdom of Play, "Children denied the opportunity to engage in play fighting may become adults deficient in the ability to empathize, and little skill in negotiation and no notion of ambiguity. One can't help but wonder, Is it possible that some members of this generation of adults, politically polarized, with no ability to listen, let alone compromise, are this way because they did not play fight as children."

When I began teaching preschool, I found myself, like many of us, spending a portion of my day, breaking up play fights. I would say, "Now is not the time for wrestling," pointing out in the spirit of natural consequences that wrestling in a full classroom infringes on the ability of their classmates to engage in such approved activities as build with blocks or make art. I had wrestled as a child, usually with my brother. I really wasn't opposed to wrestling per se, just it's impact on non-wrestling children, so I really didn't have an answer when a boy earnestly asked me, "When is wrestling time?" 

The following day, I created a wrestling space by laying down gym mats. Since many of the kids had never really experienced wrestling, we discussed what it meant. We quickly determined, together, that no one wanted to be hit or kicked, that no one wanted their hair pulled, eyes poked, or necks squeezed. We agreed that wrestling wasn't real fighting, that if someone got angry they would have to take a break, and that if someone got hurt (and we all knew that someone would get hurt) everyone would stop wrestling while we dealt with the injury. (This later evolved into the "crying chair," a folding chair that stood a distance away that became a sort of catch-all perch for anyone needing a break of any kind.)

As the kids wrestled -- and it wasn't only boys -- we found the need for other agreements, but what was most eye-opening for me as the referee, was the incredible care with which they wrangled one another's bodies. There was lots of talking and lots of looking into one another's faces. They became so focused on one another, so attuned, that they seemed to respond instantly to one another's expressions. People often don't understand it when I say this, but I came to see wrestling preschoolers as both inspiring and beautiful.

Children know they need to wrestle. How else can we explain that 20 percent of what they choose to do when left to their own devices is some form of it? How else can we explain the fact this is true for other species as well? How else can we explain that it's been a part of childhood for as long as there has been childhood? It worries me that as adults we seem to have lost the ability to know the difference between play fighting and real fighting, lumping it all together as "violence," when, in fact, it's how we are meant to learn non-violence, empathy, and cooperation. Indeed, in many ways, preschool wrestling can be viewed as love in action.

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