The Delightful Mind of a Child
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I call it the Thirsty Sand Hole Conundrum. With the rising temperatures, water play has returned to preschool and the sandbox has turned a lot mushier for it. Watching a bunch of eager children with buckets and shovels brings me back to memories of digging those epic holes on the beach. You know the ones. Built after lunch when swimming had kind of lost its appeal, being tossed in the waves seemed suddenly exhausting, and the sand, oh how the sand became your play space! So we dug.
And then the flash of brilliance: A private pool. We filled our holes with water, only to watch the very thirsty hole drink up it all up in a matter of minutes. No matter how we worked to keep it full for splashing, and work we did, that darn hole kept drinking up all that water.
The tide! We tried to built it closer to the water's edge so that the tide might fill up the pool naturally. Then: collapse. It was inevitable. The balance between structural integrity and a constant water level was delicate. As a child, I can honestly say I don't think I ever quite got it.
I love watching children with a problem. Not the volcano-of-tears, hug-me-once-and-it's-over kind of problem, but a real mind bender. Not enough connecting pieces to complete our bridge: Figure that out, small brains! Oh small brains work so hard, how those synapses fire! Futility, I cry in the name of the Thirsty Sand Hole. But then my bigger brain starts working.
Hell, I've figured out answers to all of their problems in ten different ways in my mind but they keep running back and forth with half-filled buckets so their dinosaurs can drink water from the sand's edge. Back and forth, back and forth. I laugh. What we could accomplish with adult brains put to these children's problems. What efficiency I could insert into their little lives!
But then, who is the real idiot here? Some problems, we like. My adult mind looks at a problem and searches, often in vain, for a solution. Some problems, we need. They aren't roadblocks, they're games, exercises, brain tango.
You have no chance, I want to tell those children. The Thirsty Sand always wins. Always!
But look at those rosy cheeks, those sandy knees and friends gathered round. Hear that laughter and symphonic chatter. Together, they aren't trying to solve a problem, they are sharing a moment and my critical mind is just trying to ruin their play.
I think if we all went back to preschool for a day, we would change the world. We wouldn't return to teach, but to play and learn and problem solve. Dive back into those Lincoln Logs and build the Taj Mahal. I think most of life's secrets lie hidden in tubs of Legos and between chubby fingers imprisoned in webs of glue.
Sometimes, I still think if only I could keep that Sand Hole full of water, the self-filling pool a final success, I would be happy. Not that I would make a million dollars with my invention, childrens' toils can't be measured by gold, rather my richness would be unadulterated satisfaction. My Sand Hole and I would have finally had our fill and for just a moment, bask satiated and sunny. Ah the delightful mind of a child.
Sweet Thursday, Friends.
Kris
And then the flash of brilliance: A private pool. We filled our holes with water, only to watch the very thirsty hole drink up it all up in a matter of minutes. No matter how we worked to keep it full for splashing, and work we did, that darn hole kept drinking up all that water.
The tide! We tried to built it closer to the water's edge so that the tide might fill up the pool naturally. Then: collapse. It was inevitable. The balance between structural integrity and a constant water level was delicate. As a child, I can honestly say I don't think I ever quite got it.
I love watching children with a problem. Not the volcano-of-tears, hug-me-once-and-it's-over kind of problem, but a real mind bender. Not enough connecting pieces to complete our bridge: Figure that out, small brains! Oh small brains work so hard, how those synapses fire! Futility, I cry in the name of the Thirsty Sand Hole. But then my bigger brain starts working.
Hell, I've figured out answers to all of their problems in ten different ways in my mind but they keep running back and forth with half-filled buckets so their dinosaurs can drink water from the sand's edge. Back and forth, back and forth. I laugh. What we could accomplish with adult brains put to these children's problems. What efficiency I could insert into their little lives!
But then, who is the real idiot here? Some problems, we like. My adult mind looks at a problem and searches, often in vain, for a solution. Some problems, we need. They aren't roadblocks, they're games, exercises, brain tango.
You have no chance, I want to tell those children. The Thirsty Sand always wins. Always!
But look at those rosy cheeks, those sandy knees and friends gathered round. Hear that laughter and symphonic chatter. Together, they aren't trying to solve a problem, they are sharing a moment and my critical mind is just trying to ruin their play.
I think if we all went back to preschool for a day, we would change the world. We wouldn't return to teach, but to play and learn and problem solve. Dive back into those Lincoln Logs and build the Taj Mahal. I think most of life's secrets lie hidden in tubs of Legos and between chubby fingers imprisoned in webs of glue.
Sometimes, I still think if only I could keep that Sand Hole full of water, the self-filling pool a final success, I would be happy. Not that I would make a million dollars with my invention, childrens' toils can't be measured by gold, rather my richness would be unadulterated satisfaction. My Sand Hole and I would have finally had our fill and for just a moment, bask satiated and sunny. Ah the delightful mind of a child.
Sweet Thursday, Friends.
Kris
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