There are few things I enjoy more than watching a child deep in the work of their play. It's a moment that is simultaneously magical and essentially human, to see a child lost in the flow of play. Totally present, consumed, invested. And when I know that I've played some part in that moment, perhaps because I've provided the materials or space or questions that allow it to happen - well, those are some of the moments when I feel most fulfilled as a teacher.
As I reflect on examples of this kind of play that I've seen over my years in the classroom, there are a few common characteristics: The child has chosen the work. Adults are not involved. There is no end product. There are no interruptions.
And, invariably, it comes after a period of being "bored."
I can't think of a single instance when a child walked right into the classroom and became absorbed in this kind of deep play. Rather, they wander. They lay down or roll on the floor a bit. They run their hands along the shelves, get a drink of water, start and stop a dozen other activities. They fart around. They look, to the unaccustomed eye, "bored."
Then, there are the times when the initial excitement of something new has died down. A provocation has been explored to the point that virtually nothing remains, or materials that drew everyone's interest last week don't draw a single visitor today. It's tempting to assume that the children have become "bored" with them.
But here's the thing I've learned about young children and boredom: It's we adults who assign a negative connotation to these situations, not the children. Allowing space for my students to become "bored" leads to some of the richest play and learning that happens in our classroom. That's not to say that I find it easy to trust this cycle of boredom and play. That interim period often feels uncomfortable to me. I find myself biting my tongue, sitting on my hands, generally fighting the urge to redirect and intervene.
When the turning point happens, though - when I see a child settle in to joyfully fulfill the primal urge to play - I'm always glad I left my agenda out of it. I'm always glad we welcomed boredom.
As I reflect on examples of this kind of play that I've seen over my years in the classroom, there are a few common characteristics: The child has chosen the work. Adults are not involved. There is no end product. There are no interruptions.
And, invariably, it comes after a period of being "bored."
I can't think of a single instance when a child walked right into the classroom and became absorbed in this kind of deep play. Rather, they wander. They lay down or roll on the floor a bit. They run their hands along the shelves, get a drink of water, start and stop a dozen other activities. They fart around. They look, to the unaccustomed eye, "bored."
Then, there are the times when the initial excitement of something new has died down. A provocation has been explored to the point that virtually nothing remains, or materials that drew everyone's interest last week don't draw a single visitor today. It's tempting to assume that the children have become "bored" with them.
But here's the thing I've learned about young children and boredom: It's we adults who assign a negative connotation to these situations, not the children. Allowing space for my students to become "bored" leads to some of the richest play and learning that happens in our classroom. That's not to say that I find it easy to trust this cycle of boredom and play. That interim period often feels uncomfortable to me. I find myself biting my tongue, sitting on my hands, generally fighting the urge to redirect and intervene.
When the turning point happens, though - when I see a child settle in to joyfully fulfill the primal urge to play - I'm always glad I left my agenda out of it. I'm always glad we welcomed boredom.
