"Write the Script to Your Own Life"

Imagine two young women, identical in every way, right down to their aspirations of becoming great actors.

The first women graduates from her prestigious theater program and struggles to get work. She gets a few tiny roles here and there, but the fame, fortune, and professional success she had hoped for eludes her. Slowly but surly, however, she begins to get herself cast in increasingly prestigious roles, until, at the age of 65, after decades of perseverance, just as her classmates are beginning to retire, she lands her dream role. She wins an Academy Award and finds herself wealthy and respected.

The second woman, in contrast, a graduate of that very same theater program, lands her dream role right out of the gate, winning her Academy Award along with the money and acclaim before she's turned 25. She then spends the remainder of her life failing to live up to that initial success, getting smaller and smaller roles until, at 65, she is unemployed and forgotten.

Both women, within the containers of their respective lives, enjoyed an equal measure of professional success, yet most of us without hesitation would judge the first woman's life to be the happier one. Indeed, early success, followed by a fall, is the script for every tragedy ever written.

This thought experiment is suggested by philosopher Dale Dorsey's 2015 paper entitled The Significance of a Life's Shape. In this example, the shape of the first woman's life appears as an upward trajectory in which she gradually accumulates positive experiences, while the second woman's life is a declining one in which her early positive experiences fade over time.

Of course, this is a pair of cardboard cutout women, invented for the purposes of making a point, but if they were real humans, we would hope that the second woman was self-reflective enough to turn the page on the acting chapter of her life in order to start a new one. There are few things more sad to us than a life spent trying to return to past glories.

I was reminded of this thought experiment by a recent fortune cookie message: "Write the script to your own life." This is what I hope the second woman understood. And it occurs to me that this, and perhaps only this, is what I've always wanted for the children I've cared for. I want them to know, not just intellectually, but to the depths of their being that they are author of their own story and the only way they will ever learn this is to be as free as I can allow them to live the story they wish to script for themselves.

The older I've grown, the bigger the container of my life has grown until I now sometimes even find myself considering my own story within the context of a sweep of time far more expansive than my own life span. I can consider how my current behaviors and beliefs, for instance, have been influenced by the ideas of Ancient Greeks and can, if I choose, write a life script that has me struggle to overcome or deepen those influences. From the perspective of my enlarged life container, I can think about the consequences of my current behaviors and beliefs on future generations -- a life that extends beyond the grave. Ideally, I'd like to script my life in a way that my ancestors evoke my name as some sort of visionary or hero or forefather, although it would be a enough to be remembered as a good man who tried his best. Maybe it's hubris to think I'll be remembered at all, but I like the idea of an eternal life composed of the stories people tell about me when I'm gone.

In contrast, as new humans, young children don't have the experience to comprehend the shape of an entire life, but they nevertheless have a lifetime's experience shaped by the span of a minute, an hour, a day. As babies, the container of their lives is as small as the present moment, but as we grow older the container of our lives grows along with us. Our experience informs us that there is an ever-growing past as well as an ever more likely future full of birthdays to anticipate and doctor's appointments to fear. As adults, we often feel that our job is to "fix" the small container of their lives by writing their scripts for them. In extreme cases, parents try to get their unborn babies into "gifted" programs. (It sounds crazy, I know, but my mother worked in the administrative offices of a large school district and regularly fielded phone calls from parents hoping to do just this.) But even the more reasonable of us can't help scripting our children's stories, at least a little: dressing them for a story cuteness and innocence; buying them "educational" toys or enrolling them in enrichment programs to prepare them for our story of their success; teaching them the manners that fit our story of well-behaved children.

I'm not saying that any of this is bad or wrong. In fact, it's inevitable. That's what parents do if only because our children are central characters, even co-authors, of our own stories. 

As their teacher, however, I have a different role. I want them to have the freedom to create their own scripts, to the degree that's possible in a world of scripts. I want them to know that while they are with me, they can start new chapters on any premise that spurs their interest. Today, they are Captain Marvel or the builder of bridges. Tomorrow they are a homemaker or an artist. Each hour, each day, is a chapter in the story they are scripting for themselves. In this process they learn to not just find, but pursue purpose in their lives, maybe just for this day, but as the chapters follow one-upon-the-next their lives begin to take shape along with each new or renewed purpose.

What I hope for the children in my care is that they become prolific tellers of their own stories, that they learn to dream a million dreams. I hope that the children come to understand that even within the smaller container of their lives, their story is one of many chapters, an infinite number of chapters. They might not all be as fantastic as that woman's early chapter of acting success, they might have anticipated that this or that particular chapter would be longer. But part of this learning is that every chapter eventually comes to an end and if we are to avoid the trajectory of tragedy, we must continue writing chapters in which one of our million dreams, our million potential purposes, stands at the center. They can be long chapters or short ones. That's not necessarily up to us. But the beauty is that we get to be truly alive for a time when we are free to pursue those things that make us come alive. And, as I hope for the second woman in our thought experiment, when the shape of life starts to decline, there is no shame, indeed there is great power, in ending one chapter and starting a new one.

As for the first woman, the one with the presumedly happier life, one has to wonder what she missed out on with all that struggling toward a single goal. We tend to praise these people for their single-mindedness and perseverance, but at what cost? It's hard not to wonder if she got herself trapped in a story of which she was no longer the author. Of course, only she will ever know if the long struggle was worth it, but I hope that she, in her dark moments, discovered meaning beyond her lifelong climb to the top. And as a real human, she had dark moments. No real life is all up or all down. Indeed, the argument can be made that there is no happiness without unhappiness; no success without failure; no win without loss. I expect when she re-reads the chapters of her life, this is what she sees. After all, they say that the only difference between tragedy and comedy is the ending. I think that most of us would prefer to have lived a comedy, a life that's shaped as an incline rather than a decline. It's why we judge her's to have been the happier life, but happiness doesn't have to be defined within the context of an entire life: happiness, if that's even possible, is found in writing our own scripts.

I want the children who come my way to experience this first hand, every day, which is why I want them to play, not the games I assign them, but the games of their choosing. Parents often remark on how differently their children behave at school, that they do different things, pursue different interests, and even have different personalities. This tells me I've created the kind of environment in which purpose-filled autobiographies are being written, one chapter at a time.

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I've been writing about play-based learning almost every day for the past 15 years. I've recently gone back through the 4000+ blog posts(!) I've written since 2009. Here are my 10 favorite in a nifty free download. Click here to get yours.

 

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!

I Didn't Do It

"I didn't do it!"

I'd seen the boy push his friend, knocking him to the ground. He was lying there still, whimpering.

His mother had once told me, crossly, that she believed in punishment. She understood, however, that I was not going to resort to punishments, although she doubted that I could stick to that, not with her son. "Punishment is the only thing that works," she insisted.

"I saw you push him," I replied matter-of-factly. I strive to never threaten children, even with the volume of my voice, although I will, when I want to make sure my point is made, speak firmly, which I did then, "I can't let you push people."

"I didn't do it!" he shouted again, on the verge of tears himself.

The temptation is to keep pressing, to get him to confess, but there was no point. Everyone involved knew what happened. I was knelling by the fallen friend. I'd already determined that there were no external injuries, so I was rubbing his back. "Malcolm is crying. I'm taking care of him."

"I didn't do it."

This time I let his denail stand. This is the greatest flaw in the theory of punishment: fear of it makes it difficult, even impossible, to come clean and face the harm for which you need to make amends. The threat of harm makes it impossible to deal with the real harm. There are far too many adults in the world like this boy, people in positions of power, people who cannot come clean no matter what. When punishment is off the table, however, it clears the way for making amends.

I focused all of my attention on Malcolm. He shook his head when I asked him if anything hurt. I continued to rub his back. 

Again, the boy said, "I didn't do it," but without energy, almost pleading. I did not need to punish him because he was punishing himself, facing the natural consequences of his behavior, his entire being focused on it. He wasn't denying it any longer, but rather, wishing with all his being that he hadn't done it. We call it regret. It's not uncommon for adults to assert, "I have no regrets." It's meant as a statement of bravado masquerading as strength, but all I hear is a pathetic, "I didn't do it."

We have all done regretful things and the only way to move beyond them is to take responsibility by striving to undo the harm we have done. Punishment leads only to denial. I don't believe anyone who says they have no regrets because none of us has undone all the harm we've caused. "I have no regrets" is just more denial.

Regret is a good teacher, but only if we manage to not allow it to become guilt. And the way to do that is to strive to make amends.

The boy stood watching us as tears brimmed. He picked up a toy truck and tried to hand it to Malcolm, but it was refused. He squatted down and put his face into Malcolm's, "I didn't mean to."

Malcolm replied softly, "Yes, you did."

Now the boy broke into a full cry, "I'm sorry!" He dropped down beside Malcolm, putting his arm around him, his hand replacing mine on his back. Malcolm placed his hand on his friend's head and they lay there for a time, in the dirt, a picture of regret and forgiveness.

******

I've been writing about play-based learning almost every day for the past 15 years. I've recently gone back through the 4000+ blog posts(!) I've written since 2009. Here are my 10 favorite in a nifty free download. Click here to get yours.

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!

The Best and Most Complete Definition of Play I've Ever Heard

During a recent Q&A webinar with Parent Map, I was asked by host Laura Kastner to define play. Specifically, she wanted me to react to definitions that assert that play is purposeless activity.

Generally, when asked this question, I respond by comparing it to love: we can't agree on a definition, but we know it when we experience it. We can, of course, make guesses about the motivations of children when they, say, choose to build with blocks or create with paint. We surmise what might be spurring them to climb a tree or roll down a hill. We think we can perhaps understand why a child might dress up in a princess dress or wear a cape. But at the end of the day, the true motivations of others are beyond us. Play's defiance of definition is why the science on play is often so confusing and contradictory: every researcher seems to start with their own unique definition, which, naturally, produces unique results.

Yes, we might ask a child, "Why are you doing that?" and they might even interrupt what they are doing to respond to you, the adult, because they've learned that authority figures expect answers to their questions. They must stop playing in order to respond to our "testing question" with something like, "Because it's fun" or "I like it." Although in my experience most children reply with some version of "I don't know" or, even more commonly, a blank stare, before going back to their far more important endeavors. If you wait until they've finished playing to ask them "Why?" the moment has passed and the data is, therefore, deficient.

What we can do, however, is recall the motivations behind our own play. Granted, for many of us, that's something from the distant past, but when we consider our hobbies, we find echoes of the children's knee-jerk responses: we do it because it's fun and because we like it, but for me at least, there's something about gratification in there, satisfaction, thrill, novelty, accomplishment, mastery, and comfort. When I'm playing, I'm lost in the activity in a way that is illusive when it comes to my work-a-day life. Time stops when I play, at least until I look at a clock and realize that, in fact, it's been flying by.

I can say, from the perspective of my own play, that there is no purpose insofar as the evolutionary imperatives of food, clothing, and shelter. I'm not going to earn money through my play, no matter how insistent life coaches and career gurus might be that this is how to discover my "why" in life. Indeed, the moment money comes into question it tends, for me at least, to transform play into work. For several years I played around with book carving (here's a link), but then people started asking to buy them. I proudly sold several, but I soon realized that my motivation -- having fun -- was being supplanted by the utilitarian motivations of commerce.

From a purely evolutionary perspective, play is not only "purposeless," but also a useless drain on energies, a distraction from survival, and even, especially in the case of risky play, dangerous. So either play is simply a persistent byproduct of life itself, or it's so fundamental that evolutionary pressures have sustained it despite the obvious drawbacks. During the Victorian era the leading theory for the existence of play was that it was merely a product of excess energy, but knowing what we now know about the long arc of evolution, I think it's pretty safe to assume that it's central to the survival of our species. 

This isn't t say that while in the midst of play, any of us have a purpose beyond having fun, but from a wider perspective, play does have a purpose. And at least part of that purpose is to prepare for life itself. We may cringe at the gender stereotyping, but it's not an accident that our little girls play at being princesses because, whether we like it or not, the world in which they live values a specific kind of feminine beauty. It's no wonder that our little boys choose to play at being superheroes because, again whether we like it or not, the world in which they live values a specific kind of fierce masculinity. 

While play is how we prepare for the known, it also seems to have the purpose of preparing us for the fact that life itself is unpredictable. Much of what researchers see in animal play is, as play researchers Ruth Newberry, Marek Spinka, and Marc Belkoff put it, "training for the unexpected." A "major ancestral function of play," they write, "is to rehearse behavioral sequences in which animals lose full control of their locomotion, position, or sensory/spatial input and need to repair those faculties quickly." This, of course, provides us an evolutionary purpose for risky play, not to mention the well-known benefits of genuine childhood risk to the development of the pre-frontal cortex. These researchers likewise conclude that training for the unexpected is behind most social play as well. Fun may be the immediate motivation for play behaviors, but we've only scratched the surface when it comes to play's purpose.

Many researchers attempt to distinguish between exploration and play, saying that exploration is about gathering information about something, while play is discovering what one can do with it. As someone who has observed children at play for decades, I find this to be a difference without a distinction. The questions What is this? and What can I do with this? are almost always part-and-parcel. I'm thinking right now of a two-year-old who spent an afternoon putting our classroom hamster wheel through it's paces, rolling it, tossing it, banging it, wearing it, constructing with it, putting things into it, putting it into things . . . He was playing, but also exploring, and obviously behind it all were unarticulated questions. And this for me stands at the core of any attempt to define play: it's how we naturally go about asking and answering our own questions.

I've been writing here, mostly about play, for nearly 15 years. If asked, I might say that my purpose is to advocate for play-based learning or something, but the truth is that I would have given it up long ago if it wasn't, at some level, play. I don't do it to burn off excess energy (believe me, at my age that isn't a problem). I don't do it to earn money (I've never run ads or product endorsements or even joined an affiliate program). It takes a great deal of energy and occupies time that might be more practically spent doing something else. I might say I do it for fun, but that really doesn't cover it.

The real experts on play, of course, are the children themselves. Instead of asking children about their play, I often like to muse in their presence, saying, "I wonder what play is." This isn't a question that demands their attention, it is simply a statement of fact. Most of the time, if they deign to acknowledge it, they respond with something concrete, usually with what is closest at hand.

"Play is when I throw something."

"Play is when I'm working a puzzle."

"Play is when I run really fast. Watch me!"

One time, however, I caught a boy in a more meditative state, enjoying a sensory moment with some play dough. After several quiet minutes he replied, "Play is what I do when people aren't telling me what to do." To this day, that's the best and most complete definition I've ever heard.

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I've been writing about play-based learning almost every day for the past 15 years. I've recently gone back through the 4000+ blog posts(!) I've written since 2009. Here are my 10 favorite in a nifty free download. Click here to get yours.

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!

Invitations to Create the World Together

"Let's pretend we're dinosaurs."

Any sentence that begins with "Let's . . ." and especially those that begin with "Let's pretend . . ." are music to this preschool teacher's ears.

"Let's be princesses."

"Let's make a bad guy trap."

"Let's play firefighter."

They are invitations to create the world together. 

In his book Nineteen Ways of Looking at Consciousness, neuroscientist Patrick House writes, "A body . . . is restless to get moving; in fact, the entire purpose of the brain is to make efficient movement from experience, and everything else, including consciousness, is downstream of these efforts." Let's is a contraction for "Let us" and is an invitation, one child to another, to move in a coordinated and cooperative way. 

The curricular hierarchy of standard schools is one that places literacy and mathematics at the top, with the sciences and humanities slotted into the next tier, while the arts and physical education are pushed to the bottom, if they are even included at all. It's argued by those who really don't trust children that it must be this way because, as they see it, reading and calculating are the gateway to everything else. This isn't what scientists tell us about learning. It isn't what indigenous people have known for centuries. What we know about the world is that everything is connected. No, the concept of a curricular hierarchy is merely a vestige of the mistake we made in thinking that the manufacturing model was applicable to human learning. Deep learning will never emerge from an assembly line process; it emerges most prolifically from passion, movement, and the discovery of connections. In this kind of learning environment, everything becomes a gateway to everything.

Relegated to the very bottom on our curricular hierarchy is imaginative play, often dismissed as a waste of time best left behind in preschool. But as House asserts, "Any act of thinking is just pretending to act out. Consciousness requires cells that want to move and that know roughly what will happen when they do . . . thinking is just moving without motion. Consciousness is the consequence of the primitive irritability of single cells that all share the ability to be impinged upon, to be excited, or to be provoked." (Emphasis added by me)

When a child says to another, "Let's pretend we're dinosaurs," they are making manifest this process of thinking; this process of pretending and movement. As observant educators, we hear the excitement, we see the provocation. We experience how, through their imaginative play, they are thinking, which is indistinguishable from learning. We witness them pretending to act out, then actually doing so, which is how our brains have evolved to learn.

When children say, "Let's pretend . . ." they are inviting one another to engage in the highest of human activities, which is to think and move and make stories together. "Let's pretend we're dinosaurs" is my cue to get out of the way and let the children teach themselves how their world goes together.

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I've been writing about play-based learning almost every day for the past 15 years. I've recently gone back through the 4000+ blog posts(!) I've written since 2009. Here are my 10 favorite in a nifty free download. Click here to get yours.

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!

"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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I've been writing about play-based learning almost every day for the past 14 years. I've recently gone back through the 4000+ blog posts(!) I've written since 2009. Here are my 10 favorite in a nifty free download. Click here to get yours.

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!

Ignorance is Bliss

A baby waved at me over its mother's shoulder. I'd done nothing to get its attention, yet, from across the crowded, busy room it picked me out, miraculously. As you might imagine, I was at once filled with joy at being recognized by this unspoiled human. It made me feel special, good, worthy. And then, in a flash, I realized it wasn't waving at me, but rather assertively patting its mother's back, not aware of me at all.

In a moment I went from joy to disappointment. I would have been better off emotionally had I continued on in my ignorance. Had I looked away a moment earlier, I might have carried on with my morning on the cloud of believing I'd been picked out for special recognition from a baby who didn't know me from Adam. 

Instead I got the truth.

Maybe I shouldn't say this, but I don't always want, or even need, the truth. We live in "The Information Age" (or "Computer Age" or "Digital Age"), but a more accurate name for it would be "The Age of Attention" because in a world in which information is abundant, the rarest commodity is our attention. We are inundated by appeals for our attention. We complain of "distractions." We decry social media or YouTube or video games or email or texts because they take, often without our permission, our attention away from those things to which we should or want to pay attention. It's pitched to us as a "service," dings and rings and other notifications that promise we won't miss a thing. We will always be up to date, informed about things we really don't need to know or would rather not know, at least not right now when we're, say, being waved at by a baby. 

Looked at another way, however, we see that we're being robbed of our bliss, our momentary ignorance. It's no wonder so many of us go through modern life feeling slightly disappointed and even cynical. Ignorance can also kill, of course, but there's no denying that life is often better when we're left with our beautiful ignorance . . . At least until we ourselves decide we're ready.

When we turn off our screens, we find there is, say, a small flock of Northern Bluebirds outside the window, pecking at the ground, chittering good morning to me . . . In that moment of bliss, I don't need to be informed the that that those birds are unaware of me any more than I needed to learn that the baby wasn't waving at me. When I turn my attention to the way the afternoon sun feels on my skin, the information that I'm increasing my risk of skin cancer curdles my bliss. The joy and connection of a family gatherings is spoiled by the ill-timed lecture, in the name of "getting real," about atrocities somewhere in the world. 

It's as if the modern world can't bear out momentary blissful ignorance. I suppose I get it. I mean, after all, we're supposed to be truth-seekers, right? And truth doesn't necessarily lead to happiness. As educators, our profession is all about helping people overcome their ignorance. Science is a process of using logic and reason to replace ignorance with facts. Like most things, truth it's a blessing wrapped in a curse and vice versa.

Schrödinger's Cat is a famous thought experiment that asks us to imagine a cat in a closed box with a mechanism that might kill it. As long as the box remains closed, as long as ignorance is maintained, the cat can be considered simultaneously alive and dead. Of course, we think, "Certainly, it's either one or the other," but without observing the cat, we are stuck with the paradox of it being both alive and dead. Science, reason, and truth all demand that we open the box, but hope, wonder, and curiosity -- more magnificent words for ignorance -- would rather we leave the box shut.

Too often, I think, we adults responsible for educating others believe that it's our job to open all the boxes, but in doing so we rob learners of their hope, wonder, and curiosity. We take away the awe that comes with ignorance. Speaking for myself, I'm not nearly as motivated by answers as I am by questions. Answers are dry, inert things, while questions demand action, throught, and wonder. If we really want motivated learners, perhaps we should let them decide when, or even if, they will open the box.

I was once observing a girl using a hamster wheel as a corral for her ponies. A well meaning adult informed her of the truth that her fencing was, in fact, a hamster wheel. The girl asked, "Do we have any hamsters?" When she was told that we didn't, she gathered her ponies and walked away, her ignorance and bliss replaced by fact and disappointment.

Why couldn't she have continued on in her ignorance? Why couldn't I have gone through the rest of my day believing a baby had waved at me. Truth is important and ignorance can be dangerous, but not always, and it's not my job to open that box for you. 

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I've been writing about play-based learning almost every day for the past 14 years. I've recently gone back through the 4000+ blog posts(!) I've written since 2009. Here are my 10 favorite in a nifty free download. Click here to get yours.

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!

Would I Say This to an Adult?

"The grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and, for children, it's tiresome always giving them explanations." This is perhaps the most famous line from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's novella The Little Prince.

It's memorable and funny, to adults at least, because in this case the child is exasperated with adult ignorance instead of the other way around. It's also instructive because it shows us ourselves in a kind of mirror.

Over the years, I've found it useful to regularly look in that mirror. Before saying something about or to a child, I try to listen to how it would sound if I were speaking about or to an adult who I care for.

Few of us would say, for instance, "Get your butt over here!" to an adult. Of course, most of us wouldn't say that to a child either, but if you do hear someone shouting this, it will almost assuredly be an adult shouting at a child. What would I say to an adult in this case? Probably nothing because I'm in no position to boss anyone around, especially so rudely. 

And speaking of commands, how about something more benign, like, "Get in the car." Would I say this to an adult? Even with a gentle, lilting tone? Only if I were angry and I wanted them to know it. Saying, "Get in the car, please" might even be worse. If it's an adult whose goodwill I want to maintain, I'd likely to say something less directive like, "It's time to go." Or perhaps I'd simply announce, "I'm heading to the car" or "I'll meet you at the car" or "I hate being late" or I'd look at my watch and ask, "Where did we park?" 

But it's not just commands. Imagine saying any of these things to or about an adult:

"If you stop crying, I'll buy you a cupcake." 

"What are you going to be when you grow up?"

"She's just shy."

"They're always trying to kill themselves."

"No dessert until you've finished dinner."

"Because I said so!"

When I imagine saying any of these things with regard to an adult, I hear myself being controlling or dismissive or manipulative. I hear myself talking to or about someone as if they are ignorant or incapable. When I imagine myself being at the receiving end of these words, I understand why young children might react badly. These are not things I'd say to or about an adult whose good opinion I value, so it's worth wondering about why I might say them to or about a child whose good opinion I value.

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