Play Is Serious

As I typed up the latest journal entry,  I was struck by how serious the kids were when they were playing. Looking back on memories of my kids playing, I picture them all-smiles, laughing and chatting. Of course, they did all of those things at times. But at other times, their faces were solemn, their attention was focused, their movements were deliberate.

Why should I be surprised? Look at adult gamers racking up points at Tetris or leveling up in World of Warcraft. They have that same intent, focused, serious look. Look at adults playing tennis or poker or bridge—of course they laugh and smile at times, but their faces are usually serious as they concentrate, develop strategy, and try to win.

Yeah, OF COURSE playing is serious stuff.

Not a smile in evidence on these guitar heroes!

Mindy, Lindsey and Camille were serious as they danced in the living room, and they were serious as they played school. They “knew” a book about modern animals that they'd snagged off our bookshelves wasn't “really” a school book about dinosaurs, but they were serious as they played/pretended that it was. Often their play on the computer was solemn stuff, a time for focus and attention and even (once in a while) competition.

One great thing about homeschooling is that I could take play as seriously as my kids did—as seriously as play should be taken!

A book that had a lot of impact on my when I was a young adult was TheThree Boxes of Life, by Richard N. Bolles, the What Color Is Your Parachute? guy. Bolles points out that a lot of people seem to find it reasonable to devote the first couple of decades of life to learning—kept strictly separate from “working,” and hopefully not too distracted by “playing.” The next four or so decades of life, these people seem to maintain, are of course dedicated to working. After a long, productive life, if we've made it that far, we are allowed to retire and devote whatever years or decades remaining to us to leisure. In other words, to playing.

But, Bolles argues, in reality we should be learning, working, and playing at all stages of our lives. We shouldn't even try to keep these things separate! Watch a toddler do all three things at once, as he or she plays with all sorts of objects, toys and non-toys alike, and learns through the play. This toddler is apt to have a serious, intent expression during a lot of this play/learning, and we can easily see that, for the toddler, playing around with stuff and learning from it is serious “work.” I can say the same thing about the play/learning/work as Camille danced at age five, and as Lindsey made mountains of drawings at age ten, and as Mindy created computer programs at age fourteen.

What a gift it is to get paid to learn/play/work, as many people who love their jobs or professions are! We could say that one major goal of homeschooling is the maintenance of learning, playing and working as one integrated whole. 

When Does Pretending Become Lying?

As I re-read my third journal entry, I notice that I entered into a pretend game that Mindy had started by leaving a note purportedly from an elf. And I “lied” about it: I said, “I didn't write it.”

Only thing is, I wasn't lying.

I was playing. I was pretending. The kids knew the note was really from me—I hadn't disguised my handwriting (or, rather, printing), and I even used the same pen I had been using all day writing in my journal.

So, that exonerates me, right?

This rhetorical (and rather silly) question touches on the subject of fantasy characters that our entire society seems to claim are real. Namely, the Easter bunny, the tooth fairy, and Santa Claus.

Many of us feel pretty comfortable pretending these things for our kids. It's fun! Most of us had these characters in our own childhoods, and we often have fond memories surrounding their names. It's not lying...is it?

But when kids start to question these characters, it can be tricky. When do we continue the fantasy (that is, lie)? When do we answer truthfully? How far should we take such fun pretenses?

Some parents hate the idea of lying to their kids and always present these characters as fun fantasies. (Of course, non-Christian parents have an entirely different set of challenges regarding two out of three of these characters!)

I did do the tooth fairy thing. I also hid eggs. I ate cookies left for Santa and put presents in stockings. But, when I was doing all that fun stuff, I made sure there were PLENTY of clues that my kids could use to figure reality out, when they were ready to. For example, if Santa left a thank you note on top of the cookie crumbs, or left a gift with a gift tag, he used my writing. If he wrapped a gift, he used the same wrapping paper I used. It really wasn't too hard to figure out.

Mindy asked if Santa was real when she was about five years old. I asked, “Do you really want to know?”

She said yes, so I told her that her dad and I played Santa by putting presents in the stockings and under the tree. I said some mish-mash kind of stuff—you know, the idea of Santa (as a form of love or a spirit of giving) is real, stuff like that. Then I told her that she shouldn't ever ruin the pretend game about Santa for other kids—especially not younger kids. “Can you keep playing pretend about Santa?” I asked.

She solemnly agreed to do so and never, to my knowledge, broke that promise. She seemed really pleased to be in on a secret.

Wow, that went so well!

I vowed I would do the same thing with Lindsey – wait until she asked, check to be sure she really wanted to know, and then tell her truth.

Flash forward two + years. Lindsey was five or six and had reservations about the tooth fairy, who had supposedly made a visit to our house the night before.

“Mom, is the tooth fairy real, or do you put the money under the pillow?”
“Do you really want to know?” I asked.
“Yes!!!”
“Well, I put the money under the pillow. But it's fun to pretend about the tooth fairy, so we can keep pretending if you want.”
“Yes, I do!” Lindsey said. She's a smart cookie. Pretending would undoubtedly keep the money flowing.

A few minutes later, everybody else had gone on to other things. But Lindsey interrupted us, asking,

“What about the Easter bunny, Mom? Is that real?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes!”
“Well, your dad and I get the things for the Easter baskets and hide the eggs, too. But don't you find it fun to pretend?”

Lindsey seemed so pleased. I think she'd always been nervous that a real, large (some of the baskets were fairly large, so it stood to reason that the bunny carrying them would be jumbo-sized, too) rabbit sometimes roamed around the house. I was pretty sure that Lindsey was pleased that she'd figured all this stuff out, too. She agreed to keep on pretending about the Easter bunny.

A minute or two later, she asked the final question.

Notice, it was phrased a little differently:

“But Santa's real, right?”

The way she put it made me gulp a little. It sounded to me like Santa was in an ENTIRELY different category than those other two fantasy characters. But I was in truth-telling mode, so I asked, “Do you really want to know?”

At that point Lindsey did know, and she was really, really disappointed. I can't even remember what happened—what she said, what I said, whether or not she cried. I remember it was a painful moment for me, probably because it was a very painful moment for her.

It wasn't devastating or long-lasting, thank goodness, but I wondered what I had done wrong:

Was my mistake playing Santa (that is, lying to my kids) in the first place?
Was my mistake telling Lindsey the truth before she was really ready – and, believe me, I knew that she was going to be disappointed from the way she phrased the question!
Or did I honestly not make a mistake? Maybe things just played out the way they played out, end of story. We can't spare our kids every disappointment.

But...I'm not positive about any of this...

Invoking a Substitute

When our young children are too tired to finish an academic task or chore, too shy to give an oral report, or too upset to make peace with their siblings, we can sometimes help them by suggesting that a substitute do the job.

A substitute?

Of course, we can't call up a substitute kid to do the task, but dolls, stuffed animals, and even costumes and masks can provide, through the power of make-believe, a substitute ready and willing to do stuff.

I noticed that the second day of my homeschool journal tells an anecdote about Lindsey, age 3, being too tired to play the entire piano keyboard/alphabet. But when I asked if her doll wanted to finish, Lindsey rallied and used her doll to do the task much more energetically, even, than she had done the first half as herself.

Naturally. After all, the doll wasn't tired. And, unlike Lindsey, she didn't have a virus.

By pretending to be her doll, Lindsey seemed to tap into reserves of energy.

I remember many times when donning a costume or mask, or manipulating a doll or stuffed animal—or even just pretending to be something or someone else—made my kids braver or more confident or more capable. Even the simple act of holding a stick puppet, for example, allowed Mindy to do a presentation to a group that she was otherwise to shy to speak to. Having dolls negotiate a peace treaty helped my kids distance themselves from the action and gain a more reasonable perspective. Pretending to be Mary-Poppins-style magic as we cleaned the room—singing “A Spoonful of Sugar” at the top of our lungs—made the chore much more fun.

So when the going gets tough, consider calling on a substitute.