Big Adventures for Tiny Humans, No. 7
Sunday morning. It’s cloudy with the finest snow coming down outside amid the chilly winds. Yesterday, Louisa was under the weather, and I feared the worst for the coming week of school - routine requests to blow her dripping nose, raspy voice, intermittent throat clearing, and absolutely no energy. She spent the morning curled up on the couch watching Daniel Tiger and Frozen, and followed lunch with a two hour nap, hints of energy barely appearing around dinner time.
Today, though, she’s arrived at breakfast renewed. Soon she’s off to dress and brush her teeth because “my doctor’s office needs to open.” In no time she’s evaluating her brother’s health, seeking new patients, and squabbling over how the blood pressure cuff is used.
My energy is really low today, so I’m savoring an extra cup of coffee and a few more pages of my book at the kitchen table. My husband is tidying the kitchen from breakfast and chopping breakfast potatoes in preparation for the week ahead. Unfortunately, Louisa isn’t getting the patient volume in her clinic today that she was hoping for, and her brother is more interested in checking the reflexes on a stuffed bear than being evaluated himself.
Soon the playroom activity turns to running and jumping - pushing and pulling - yelling and frustration. We’ve escaped tantrumming tears so far, but maybe it’s time for an intervention.
Out come the magnetic blocks. Instead of building up - which would ensure the one and a half year old’s smashing attack on the four and half year old’s perfectly constructed skyscraper in less than two minutes - we build out. I suggest we use the tiles to lay the footprint of a house, the sidewalk leading away, an area for parking cars, a road off to somewhere. I grab the chunky wooden blocks, finding the small ones with images of people imprinted. Could they live in the house? Could the bigger blocks be built into something at the end of the road? I add an oversized giraffe from a different set - there’s a zoo? Glancing around the room, I spot the small box of peg dolls and wooden trinkets that arrived at Christmas and have been mostly untouched in the weeks since. A collection of 8 moms and their babies, each face and dress painted a different color - maybe you’ll want to use these?
An hour later, a wooden castle sits at the end of the road. Tiny cars have surfaced from another bin. The imprinted block people are being zipped across the floor from work to home. She looks up from her play and invites me to join. I comply for a few minutes, carefully following the directions for what to do and who moves next, before I’m pulled away by the toddler’s demands.
As we approach lunchtime, she’s been distracted to other activities here and there, the road has come undone, and part of the castle has fallen. Would she like some of these blocks and supplies in the basement for quiet time today? Oh. Yes!
As we walk down the steps to settle into quiet time,
Will you help me get the setup started?
Yes, of course.
Because the basement is all carpet, we bring a big sheet of particle board (handy for gating the stairs, blockading the exercise room and now apparently building small worlds) into the open space and begin unpacking dolls, blocks, mini cars. In five minutes time, we’ve set up the footprint of a house with low walls and easy access to various rooms, a road leading to a wooden block hospital, and a pile of other climbing toys to serve as a mountain. It’s the beginning; her imagination can take it from here. I offer a kiss and several hugs, see you later!
In the span of two hour quiet time I was summoned only once to admire the building progress, and when I go to retrieve her at the end, she invites me to play instead of wanting to move along. I join her for a few minutes, following each direction for how things work. Her dad and brother join us, football goes on the television, and her imaginative play continues.
Later on we break for dinner and bathtime with the promise that she can play a bit more before bedtime. She squeezes in another 45 minutes with her dolls and setup - they eat dinner, attend school, climb the mountain, get tucked in for bed - before finally moving upstairs for her own stories and sleep.
We didn’t leave the house that day. In fact, we skipped church because she had been so run down the day before. And yet, Louisa spent most of the day a million miles away in the world she dreamt up. For my part, I loved watching her creativity and focus; when I look for it, there’s always something to learn from the little ones.
