life and write

There is no blueprint,
just love and geometry,
as we build, engineer,
wonder solve, spread all over
the furniture, the living room.
There is love and silence clicked
and cluttered in those colored
plastic blocks, those endless
renditions, that time well spent.

“The important feature that design brings is this bridge between the science and the arts. And I don’t think many people understand the power of design to put these two things together.”—Bill Moggridge

The end of day
was unusually warm,
the playground,
unusually quiet. There
were children in the distance,

but I heard, as I have
so many times before,
his wail, his wrinkled face
a solemn song. His long
slender limbs folded
awkward like brittle branches.
His tears rounded
bunched skin, blushed cheeks,
left bits of spotted salty white.

A collision on the playground,
down the slide,
two friends,
elbow to ankle,
laughter then tears,
broken and bruised,
heal and repeat.

image: via silverfishlongboarding.com

Added to my series on creative play, I thought I might include a poem pairing. The kids are still “not playing with their toys”, but I find they are still inspiring me to write about their creative adventures with everyday “stuff”.

Untitled

There is a poem in play. A child
on bended knees, ringing metal chimes
in the sunlight, atop honey-colored wood
scraped with steel and laughter. Circles scattered
on the floor, those silver eyes like spinning tops.

Saturday mornings were made for siblings sharing laughs, a yellow plush giraffe and a red caterpillar, for lying around in orange pajamas, and taking in the gray day.

Weekends, the reminder to relax, revise, to take a moment to rethink, rewrite, and remix life, writing, time. Here are a few posts from this week slightly revised and remixed. Now on to relaxing. Enjoy your Sunday!

DIY Creative: Rainbow Slice (link)

Part of the Celebration (link)

The Company We Keep (link)

Weekend Forecast: 50 Degrees, Wide Open Sky, Sun (link)

“That’s the magic of revisions – every cut is necessary, and every cut hurts, but something new always grows.”—Kelly Barnhill

There are ribbons, and then there are rivers, candy striped, bending crisscross between wooden slats, falling into the fingers of a child, then onto the floor. A single ribbon is a sequence of play, of imagination, a curl and wave of fabric without buttons, buzzers, or beeping lights. That ribbon drawn in a raggedy circle or soft square formed familiar shapes and fenced in farm animals. That ribbon even encouraged sharing with a younger sibling, when sharing is often hard to do. That three-year-old carried that ribbon all throughout the house day after day, twisting, turning, tying it in multiple iterations of play. Who needs a toy when you have a fearless young creative with a magic ribbon?

“Creativity is bent freedom.” ―Jeremiah Laabs

Have you been here all night Lego guy? Did one of my sons dress you in your armor and helmet, leave you here to guard the black raspberry and vanilla hand soap? Did you get lost somewhere between the bathroom sink and the piles of right angles, bumps, and clicks? Thank you Lego guy for keeping me company during my morning routine and above all for making me smile.

“I’m building a castle,” said my three-year-old. There he was, holding one bottle with one hand trying to stack them as they continued to fall repeatedly. I could see his wonder. He had seen many other things stack so easily: Legos, boxes, cups. But in his repetitive efforts, I watched as he contemplated why the science was failing him. Why did those plastic bottles refuse to stack and stay? Why did they crumble so quickly, so easily try after try? Why did his outstretched arms seem just short of reach, not able to corral those bottles into submission? I watched and did not have the answers, but also did not intervene in his playful matters. I watched as he kept trying…

That moment made me wonder how young children know when to keep trying and at what point in their lives does that persistence, that resilience slip away? Failure is a graceful, and inevitable thing. Yet, I work regularly with students who have become more and more afraid of that failing grace, afraid to let go, do something wrong, redo, or revise.

Failure is a part of the learning process I remind students, but I have to often remind myself that so much of Education lacks that process. To take Education as it stands, there are series of tasks students are asked to complete at the same time, in the same way, in pursuit of the same result. All that sameness doesn’t allow much room for process: curiosity, questions, trial and error, mistakes, wonder, thinking.

Process seems far too messy for Education (as it stands now) to entertain. But it is in that messy, unpredictable process where questions are asked, methods are explored, and resolution may or may not present itself as an outcome. Education in its search for new methods must explore failure, and the varied and appropriate responses to not “getting it right” the first time. What if we all failed and just couldn’t bring ourselves to “try, try again”? What would that look like? If Education and schools are reinforcing a culture where kids fear anything less than perfection, how will young people learn to think, problem solve with resilience, strategy, patience, critically and creatively. If Education trades “thinking” (critical and creative) for task-based learning, students will never learn to build and keep building on their ideas, create jobs, new technologies, a kinder gentler world, a future for us all. Education is a “big work” (Montessori).

Now back to the play of my three-year-old. After many tries, I’m not sure how many, I lost count. He finally figured out how to wrap his hands around those bottles, bend and steady his arms to encourage balance, build until those bottles stood steady, towering over him. “A castle,” he said, as he did it without my help, but with the full weight of my hope. “Yes honey, a castle.”

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Saturday morning I opened our bathroom hamper to find the laundry sea level rising with Legos. Let me guess, I wonder who could have dumped all those Legos in the hamper? This morning the laundry is all done, but in the blur of the weekend, I forgot about the Legos, and obviously so did my boys. This morning, when I opened up the hamper to throw in a towel, guess what I found?

I showed my three-year-old the basket and asked him what was in there. He looked at me with his big brown eyes and smiled, “clothes?” I opened up the lid of the hamper and we both laughed.

Hope you’re having a good morning. Happy Monday.

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Out of the dark and into the hallway, my three-year-old appears. A jittery beaming light in his hands scrapes the pale paint with white. Shrinking and stretching shadows, he writes on the walls without ink.

________________________________________________________________

Those colorful numbered blocks don’t seem to stand a chance when compared to the plain interestingness of the cardboard box they came in.

Answer: Play

Kids Don’t Play With Their Toys
I was recently reminded that the fascination with the ordinary begins early. The baby of course is in on the action now that he’s a bit more agile and slightly more mobile (if you count rolling and bear crawling mobile). You would think from watching my older kids, I have come to expect children’s curiosity for the mundane. I suppose I have, but it’s still fascinating to me, that curiosity, that clearly begins far before early childhood. It obviously begins as early as infancy, which makes sense because everything to an infant is new and fascinating. Zero to Three, a parenting resource, reinforces that everyday objects like wooden spoons or cardboard paper tubes are a source of discovery and engages infants and toddlers in early problem-solving. Imagine if more adults and older children, who have had the curiosity and wonderment sucked out of them, could tap into that “everything is fascinating” mindset. That sense of wonderment could be delightfully leveraged in educational contexts and the workplace.

What Can We Learn from Babies?
I recently caught my six-month-old in a moment of wonderment, so I sat down next to him and wondered a bit myself. There on the floor, in the basket, on the sofa, the most colorful, noise producing toys; a wonderland for little people without words or teeth. Yet, the objects, all shapes and sizes just right for curious little fingers to grab and clasp were not that interesting to my son. Those objects solely produced to encourage babies to gnaw, stare, think, pull, twist, and throw could not compare to a single random piece of formed plastic, which he played with for so long, I stopped counting the minutes. I wondered if he was curious about its colorlessness, its translucence, or that it kept its shape and felt slick on his skin? What an interesting object his eyes seemed to say, his hands tightly gripped on the edge of the thing-a-ma-gig.

What if as adults we could tune into our sense of curiosity and fascination? How would we see life differently?

“Curiosity is the key to creativity.” ~Akio Morita

Thanks to a few imaginative kids (who live in my house), everyday ordinary is interesting and inspiring, reminding me as a parent to take note and get out of the way of their learning and creativity. Here’s to a a few laughs, and a new year filled with imagination, smiles, and of course many more days of play!

Click on links below to view posts

Funnel Love             Holiday Wrapping Paper             The Laundry Basket             The “Dirt Devil” Mini Vac

The Art of Untied Shoe Laces             “The Dark Knight”…           Looking For Music In Unlikely Places

Battle Royale In The Bathroom Sink            A Fish Out Of Water             Make The “Everyday” Take Flight

What do you get when you mix a strip of tape, a plastic USC cup, and a mini basketball? According to my three-year-old, ice cream of course! This morning on the end table I found remnants of my three-year-old’s imagination—a hand-made, re-purposed ice cream cone with just one colorful swirl (notice the single strip of tape). It’s a good thing this delectable treat didn’t melt, or maybe fall over, I might have missed yet another time to celebrate the creative things kids do with random stuff around the house.

Yesterday, while in the kitchen, I overheard my son playing with the cup and the ball, but I had no idea he saved his simple creation, and added a piece of tape to it. Or maybe he left it out on display for us to see. Either way, finding this continues to remind me that the ordinary shapes and objects we have around the house open up an imaginative world we busy adults don’t always have access to.

Imagination does not become great until human beings, given the courage and the strength, use it to create.
—Maria Montessori

I’ve been engaged in myriad conversations over the past few weeks about creativity. This subject keeps coming up. Where does creativity come from? How can we encourage it in children, in ourselves as adults? Why is there a battle in education, in our homes, in the workplace between critical and creative thinking? Why do those spaces want to choose between the two—which is more rigorous, beneficial, salient? Why can’t we (as humans) young and older practice both in learning and in the wider part of our lives? Why does education (and often other aspects of our lives) strip us of our ability to see our creative selves, think creatively? I keep coming back to some of the same sensibilities. We have to undo what it is that blocks us from wonder, play: stress, excuses about time, space, money, fear.

I work with young people on how to “undo” some of that fear of creativity before they reach adulthood and can’t find that sense of wonder anymore. I work with adults (other educators/parents), to encourage, give “permission” to allow room in their lives, their student’s lives, their children’s lives to think creatively, to wonder. I watch my own children access their creative selves everyday. They remind me how it’s is done…

I typically use the funnel in the kitchen pouring liquid, grains, from one container into the next. But when my three-year-old gets a hold of the funnel he is much more imaginative. That sputtering sound I heard the other day was no trumpet but rather my three-year-old composing his best kid rendition of some unknown tune on his newly imagined funnel horn. And while I thought that horn might be the only trick he had up his sleeve that trumpet quickly became a birthday hat for his younger brother (not sure if the younger brother was thrilled about that). But you can’t have a birthday hat without birthday cake, so my three-year-old ran to the other room and brought back the small plastic containers I use to organize stuff around the house, for his pretend birthday cake, when the funnel had one more magical use, as the candle on top.

Now I will have to go back to using my funnels in that same old boring and practical way. But next time I use that funnel I’ll remember metaphor, and how even kitchen utensils have creatively secret and interesting lives of their own.

What toys? Kids find play in anything, everything.

Happy Friday!

My three-year-old isn’t writing just yet, but his eye for language led him to some remote corner in the house inside the black bin where we keep our shredded text, including bills, junk mail, and other bits of random paper. And as a writer I was so proud to see my three-year-old trying to “write” (sort of) standing in the middle of a blizzard of black ink and broken typeset, a storm of fonts, letters, broken and bending words.

The rambling shreds spread all over the floor were remnants of our identity ripped and twisted by child’s play. I imagine he was drawn to the pool of white slivers, until he discovered those peculiar little paper strips appear even more magical piled on the hardwood floor, like snow flurries indoors or pollen in the spring. I do love his graceful lettering, sculpting far beyond his vocabulary into a land of faceless characters, unknown “found” poems, and accidental, nonsensical lines of language. Instead of digging for a ready-made story, today he wrote one himself, building on jagged little shapes, crooked strands of paper, a pile of interesting mess. There are some things that are simply better in shred, and I guess today, “play” was one of them.

“A piece of creative writing, like a day-dream, is a continuation of, and a substitute for, what was once the play of childhood.” —Sigmund Freud

For more thoughts on word play read: Freud on creative writing and daydreaming by Maria Popova

Back by popular virtual audience demand, my observations and musings on the everyday objects creative kids (and adults alike) find amusing. There is typically a laugh (and a lesson) somewhere in these stories so enjoy and remember—it’s not necessarily what you play with, it’s how you play! 

As I reached for my toothbrush a few mornings ago, my eye caught a glance at what looked like a tangled blur of red and blue. As I looked closer, I thought, “Are these ninjas battling to the death in the bathroom sink?” By the look of things they’ve been tossing around in there all night.

And though I’m not a fan of fist fighting, I will endorse an occasional (and respectful) verbal fight (or debate if you prefer) every now and then. But from what I could tell, this brawl was surely not respectful or verbally debatable—these guys (or ninjas if you will) were at each other’s plastic throats. The head of one bruised and broken body is already missing, but something tells me he didn’t lose it in this present brawl. My hunch is some adventurous toddler might have gotten to him first.

I would like to think the sink is straight forward—simply for washing our hands, brushing our teeth and other such hygiene related things. But with kids, I know better. That sink has been known for many a days play with soap and bubbles, cups as waterfalls (that end up in a watery mess on the floor), and as evidenced here: a “battle royale” of headless action figures. And by the look of this porcelain battle ground, there’s not much hand washing going on at the moment. Ninjas, if you will excuse me—I need to break this battle up and brush my teeth.

Happy Friday!

“I’m going to reuse this paper. It’s just an old multiplication worksheet.”–My seven-year-old

My husband just got back from duty and brought both boys new shiny black jet fighter planes. Cool right? Well, the boys do love their planes and hold them in their hands, pass them back and forth to each other and roll them on the wall, the sofa, and the floor. They also fly them through the air throughout the house and in the car. My seven-year-old naturally gets a bit more altitude because of his height, but my two-year-old seems fine to fly a little low (and swipe his brother’s plane when he’s not looking). And while these planes are cool and new (these kids seem to like anything new for at least five minutes), those mini metal aircrafts still don’t seem to compare to the old standby, the craft that will never let them down, wings that glide and soar through the air (or at least our living room).

What am I referring to? None other than the paper airplane of course. One might think compared to those shiny new metal planes; paper planes would have no appeal. One (meaning me) would be wrong. I suppose paper has a sort of accessible quality, it makes a way out of no way, junk mail, old school work, random paper lying around, and my favorite—planes formed from loving notes scribbled on the inside that read: “I love you mom” or “you’re a great dad”. I guess that’s proof that the tiny pilots in my house are full of adventure and affection.

Anyway, as I think about paper’s appeal, I imagine the boys find it easy and immediate to fold, shape, and recycle their own handmade aircrafts out of life’s colorful leftover stock. Now that I think about it, there are more images, textures, and weight of paper to play with. I imagine these planes are more interesting with their advertisements and colorful wings, with their lightweight nature and glide time of at least a few seconds from the living room to the dining room or from the top of the stairs to the landing at the bottom. I believe part of the secret to the appeal of paper planes is that they fly…and beautifully, when well engineered and crafted by little people with big ideas. A fold here, a tuck there—my seven-year-old designs and turns out these planes as if an engineer, a skilled craftsman, or just a kid having fun. I love how simple plain paper can take on a life of its own, entertain the kids, and fearlessly take to the sky (or at least just below the ceiling).

It’s a good thing we recycle. Those planes do tend to clutter up the house, the car, or wherever else these boys fold and leave them. But I guess that comes with the territory of creatively turning the objects in our lives into toys and wonder, or in this case sudden makeshift airports.

Fly on boys, fly on. But when you’re done, don’t forget to clean up and recycle your creative little mess.

What is my two-year-old doing? He was looking for music. He was attempting to listen to the tiny crevice he found in the tile surrounding the fireplace. I didn’t tell him there’s no music in the fireplace because I found it more interesting that he would look there in the first place. Maybe it’s because the crevice between the tiles was too tempting to pass up, the narrow end of those headphones seemed to fit perfectly in that crevice so he tried over and over to get the jack to fit. I wonder what (if anything) he heard. When I asked him what he was doing, he replied, “music.”

I watched him try for a while, those headphones, slightly too big for his tiny ears, slid to his shoulders, but he kept trying to fit that jack into the tile. His determined look seemed to suggest he believes music lives somewhere in that fireplace. The birds sometimes call their song from the top of the chimney, and I suppose he wondered if there are other noises he could find with his headphones plugged into the unknown world behind that tile. And even as I know there is no sound, no music on the other end of those headphones, I also know my son’s imagination was intent on listening, looking for rhythm in the most unlikely of places.

And even if he never finds the sound he’s looking for, the music that will make him dance and sing, I hope that won’t stop him from trying to listen again to something else random and ordinary in the house. Looking, listening for the sound around him, creating magic of the everyday.

Typically mornings in my house have a certain rhythm: the high and low pitch of my husband and two-year-old breathing (or snoring) in harmony, the flushing stream of vapor from the humidifier, the occasional thump as I stub my toe on a miniature car or action hero, the edge of the bed, or some other object in the obstacle course of my house.

I usually spend my mornings alone with a crowd of thoughts, words, writing, as I sit at my computer, switching back and forth between emails, the morning news on my smartphone, and a list of tasks in my head I need to complete before our collective late morning dance out the door to work and school.

But this morning was slightly different. This morning between the shadows and single light I work by, there were footprints; bright colorful remnants of baths the night before, the memories of laughter and water splashing, sleepy eyes and happiness.

Sometimes when I wake up, the sunless morning feels slow, a calm waiting against the cool wet window pane. I scribble down words as my writing finds its way in the dark of the early day. This morning between writing and sunrise, I stumbled into colorful footprints, bright beautiful interruptions of my quiet thoughts. Those footprints kept me company, distracted my anxious “writer’s block”, warmed my bare feet tapping, my still fingertips.

I left the strand of toys in the tub while I showered, washed myself with those footprints, my feet standing in between the busy circles and squares, the Legos and plastic rings, the water splashing with colorful joy, remnants of happiness, their childhood happiness—and mine.

Good morning…

No those odd-looking goggles on my two-year-old aren’t some new fashion statement—although in some alternative universe they might help him see the future. And with no swim lessons for him for a few more months and generally not much water in sight other than a bath (the occasional playing in sink water and random spills don’t count), my guess is maybe this kid is channeling something more interesting, more cunning.

Well, good for him, I assumed those goggles only helped my little one see everything in front of him in blue, but maybe he’s not telling me something. Maybe they allow him to see around corners or through walls. Maybe when looking in the mirror, they allow him a vivid reflection revealing mysteries and secrets of the past and present only he can view through those tinted oversized lenses. And while those awkward looking spectacles don’t seem a requirement for any part of his adventurous little life, he’s been wearing them on and off around the house for the past few weeks ever since my seven-year-old ditched them for a new (and from what I hear better) pair of swim goggles. So what would little brother possibly need with big brother’s reject goggles? I would assume nothing, but what do I know? Maybe the magic of futuristic x-ray vision only works for little kids wearing big blue goggles with wide eyes and a crafty spirit.

It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.—Henry David Thoreau

Is it still bad luck to open an umbrella indoors? I guess I’m not really that superstitious, but I hope not, considering that my two-year-old discovered his brother’s Batman umbrella and played with it until its metal brackets and frame came unhinged, until it could do no one any good in the rain as it lie there broken and bent out of shape in the middle of the living room floor. Batman looked less like a superhero and more like a shadow of himself in tights and begging for mercy from my curious and determined little boy.

Who is Batman’s archnemesis? If you ask my husband, who I’m mildly embarrassed (for him) to say knows all about these comic book characters, he might suggest “The Joker”, “Riddler”, “The Penguin”, or “Two Face”. Don’t ask me how he knows these things. I might also add that once I got him talking about comics, it was hard to get him stop. But after considering all those imaginary enemies the masked man in tights battles in comics, on television, and on the movie screen, I imagine his real (and ultimate) challenge might actually be my curious and somewhat destructive two-year-old as he repeatedly opened and closed Batman’s flimsy fabric wings, turned the umbrella upside down and spun it like a spinning top, and dragged that poor superhero down the stairs and all throughout the house. There was even a point when my little boy stomped inside the open umbrella (I think) just to see what would happen. I knew what would happen—it would lose all its superhero powers, and therefore lose its playful mystique. And of course after a few minutes it did. So how do I break the news to my seven-year-old that his little brother broke his Batman umbrella—my guess is very gently.

My seven-year-old is notorious for ignoring his shoe laces as they drag on the floor, in a puddle, or outside on the playground. How does he do all the things a kid does throughout the day with his shoes untied? How does he not notice that? Isn’t that annoying to him? Maybe it’s just annoying to me. And maybe it’s just my kid that does this. When I see him at the end of the school day, I think to myself, “Don’t those long dangling laces get in the way? Don’t they cause him to trip over them, lose balance, and fall?” I wonder if his shoes ever come off when he’s running, jumping, and climbing on the playground? I wonder if after tripping over those laces again and again, he doesn’t make some cosmic connection that all he needs to do is tie his shoes for less hassle, less nagging, and the most important, for walking ease. I don’t get it, but I refuse to give up on this battle, allow dirty laces in complete sprawl to go untied all day.

And even as untied laces are a slight source of frustration for me, for my seven-year-old, I’ve noticed that those same seemingly insignificant laces apparently fascinate and peak a sense of curiosity when they are not a source of mild conformity, begging to be laced and tied in shoes. What does this all mean? Apparently when those same laces are out of my son’s shoes, they instantly become a puzzle, a fantastical bendable string with elastic wonder and endless revelations of play. How is this possible? How can said child be so curious about the curl and bow of these laces while he pulls, turns, and ties them in his hand, but could care less while they pull, turn (untied), and drag lazily beside his shoes on the ground?

Parenting is often baffling. These curious things that kids get into and we adults wonder about do not have rhyme or reason because “play” is determined naturally, with objects that peak children’s innermost curiosity. This mundane “task” of tying shoes (mainly because mom, dad, or a teacher) asks him, is not high on his priority list of curiosity or play. I suppose at seven-years-old, keeping shoes tied is not very interesting, not fun, and certainly doesn’t compete with pulling those same laces out of shoe eyelets and letting them curl about, winding in and out of his fingers in the shape of bows, dragon tails, string battles, and whatever else that young mind conjures up.

Just keep playing with those laces son, a mom can only hope through practice those curious fingers learn to tie bows and knots, keep those shoes tied all day, just as masterfully, as you do in play.

One would think that surrounded by colorful action figures and tiny race cars, my toddler would surely have no interest in the awkward looking, two-toned, cone-shaped contraption conspicuously sitting on the sofa. I was wrong. And you know my theory—kids can have all the latest, most interesting, most technologically crafted toys in the world and still find themselves most curious about the simple objects around the house. It’s not a scientifically proven theory of course, but I see my kids each week reach for odd things around the house to dazzle their curiosity and inspire their creativity.

The seemingly uninteresting Dirt Devil hand vacuum is no different. I typically try to keep it on hand because these boys are notorious for adorning my slightly post-modern sofa and slick wood floors with their “crumb nation”: Goldfish, graham crackers, bread crumbs, you name it, they eat it and spread the aftermath all over the house. So I finally invested in a cheapish “hand vac” to quickly remedy those eyesore crumbs and attempt to keep my house (almost) clean. Mind you, it will never be “fully” clean until these boys grow-up and get out of here, but a girl has a right to try.

Recently I’ve given the vac to my seven-year-old to use while he’s doing his little chores around the house, but my two-year-old must have wanted in on the action. I suppose he was curious about this little machine that makes things like crumbs, lint, and dust disappear. Maybe he thought to himself, “what else can I make disappear?” It would be one thing if he (meaning the two-year-old) used the mini vac in the way it was intended, but no, that would be much too easy.

I watched him the other night entertained for quite a while as he measured (by eye) the toys scattered on the sofa next to him to see if maybe one of his smaller toys might disappear in the narrow open mouth. He turned the vacuum on and off, then on and off again, countless times, until the battery begged for a break and began to run with a slow, muffled groan. I guess it’s a good thing this machine runs on rechargeable batteries. It puts a time limit on the random mischief my kid can get into and hopefully will spare the life span of my vacuum.

Maybe one day instead of plotting to suck up toys, he’ll clean up his mess with it. For now, that’s probably unlikely, but I’ll keep my fingers crossed, you never know, he might just discover that vacuum is for cleaning and not for unleashing tornado havoc on his action figures.

Tucked away in the closet (if you want to call the tiny space in our room a closet) our toddler found a roll of the holiday wrapping paper. Don’t ask me why it’s still in the closet, but it was there and he, with the mind of a crafty performance artist or the dreams of a magician, thought he might wrap himself up in that paper and what: roll away, send yourself to grandma’s house (that’s not a bad idea)—no, no, this child just wanted to lie there performing and wasting all that wrapping paper. I suppose he imagined himself a caterpillar (a very hungry one I might add) or a gift (you are a gift to us my dear). But I think he looks more like some kind of human cannon ball, or a “fruit roll up”, or a sushi roll (I miss sushi). I also think he liked the clash and crinkling of the paper as he rolled around in it. I watched him as he was determined to figure out how to get this paper around his entire body. During his play, he had a slight moment of frustration. I was tempted to help but I was curious too, so I stayed out of the way and secretly rallied for him to figure it out. He obviously did.

I guess he thought he was clever “finding” that roll of paper in the closet right where we (oh um, I mean Santa) left it in plain sight. I should only blame myself (or maybe my husband, it’s his closet) for leaving things out for this kid to find and tear up (I mean be creative with). Do you know how many more gifts we could have wrapped for you next year in that perfectly good paper? I guess you’ll never know…

I should add: It’s a good thing we are committed recyclers. It was tough tossing all that paper away in the recycle bin. But I just couldn’t stop him from having all that fun in all that colorful paper. When it comes to the kids’ imaginations, I again just try to stay out of the way, watching to make sure they don’t break something or hurt themselves, but most of all just allowing them to have fun and create with the world around them. Here’s to raising creative and imaginative kids.

Imagination does not become great until human beings, given the courage and the strength, use it to create.
—Maria Montessori