The Pleasure of Playing . . .

. . . With Children

Playing with children is the greatest pleasure I know (although delving into my mind to discover what I think about something is a close second).

It’s only in recent years that I’ve felt this thrilled and fulfilled by engaging with little kids at their level—otherwise, perhaps, I’d have chosen to be a nursery-school teacher.

I suppose my passion for playing with children emerged when I became a grandmother. My granddaughters are now 5 months old, 3 years old and 7 years old. As soon as I see them, I want to play.

I realize that if I were with them fulltime, what’s a joy to me now might become mundane and even irksome.  But geography separates us, and I don’t see them often. Hedonic adaptation never sets in, and playing with them remains rare and delightful.

What is the source of this unparalleled delight? If I’m honest with myself, I think playing with children enables me to feel like a child again, with a child’s absence of responsibilities. Certainly, in my case, there’s that: when a grandchild visits, I generally have others cook and clean so I can devote myself fulltime to playtime.

When I’m down on the floor playing, I aim for a child’s absorption in the present. For the moment, nothing matters as much as finishing the corner of the puzzle or arranging the cars in size places in what has been designated the garage. At these moments, I don’t want to be an authority figure or a sage: I want to be, and pretend to be, a child myself, usually two years older than the kid I am playing with. I take our games very seriously, as a slightly older child would do. You’ll sometimes hear me say, “No fair!” with great indignation. I tell them the rules and make sure they are followed—or not.

Occasionally, it’s more fun to invent one’s own rules for a board game. Playing with children allows the imagination to flourish. Certainly, blocks and train sets inspire narrative, especially when both are in use at once. My 3-year-old granddaughter always demands that we play ambulance. I “call” and explain the emergency in an urgent voice.  Then she propels the toy ambulance car from the hospital (the couch) across the train tracks to rescue the patient. I try to add a little drama here: will the doctors succeed? Yes, they do!

Imagination is also called into play when you improvise playthings. There are always many actual toys in my house, because we haven’t moved since my children were young, but I also like to use odds and ends to play with, especially when I’m too tired to trot to the attic. The baby gets to hold red measuring cups in her little fists. The three-year-old and I play Cardboard City. I keep a huge box into which I put interesting packaging: a cool eyeglass box from Oliver Peoples, a glossy white lid, cardboard cylinders, shiny boxes which held gifts. From these, we lay out cardboard city: apartment buildings, the library, the farmers market, the playground. When we are done, or bored, back in the box they go, ready for another day and another configuration.

The seven-year-old, who has a keen sense of fashion and is visiting soon, has a treat in store. I was about to discard some frayed white pillowcases until I realized that with a couple of cuts, for the neck and the arms, they will be dresses for her, and she can decorate them with markers and glitter and ribbon. Just thinking of her working on them makes me happy.

Perhaps I love these improvised playthings even more than they do, for they appeal to my frugal side, not otherwise in evidence.

I must confess that I am not so immersed in our play as to ignore the kissing possibilities it provides. Bending down for a train car to push along the track, it’s only natural for me to give a passing kiss to the soft little cheek nearby. She would surely squirm away if I tried for a second kiss, but this way (“All aboard!”) she scarcely notices it.

I’m sure there’s a special happiness knowing that these are my progeny, that these bright and lovely little girls will take some of me into the future.

But I also simply love playing with kids. A few years ago, I got a job doing just that. Through a social services agency, I would visit disadvantaged children, ages 18 months to four years old, with a new toy.  I would sit on the floor and play with the toy, chattering all the while to the mother and the child. The aim was to model playing and talking, because people who are struggling economically speak less to their children. I would leave the toy behind and return the next week with another. It felt like the perfect job . . . until Covid came along and stopped all visits.

Soon after that, I got another job, creating a medical newsletter, and that, too (although opposite in every way to my previous employment), seemed like the perfect job, at least for a while.

Now, I have no job. I play. And on lucky days, I play with children.