A Homecoming That Needed One More Thing

The front door had barely closed before Eliana ran into her father’s arms. For weeks, he had been away on a long work trip. During that time, his voice had come through a phone, his face had appeared on a screen, and his presence had lived mostly in photographs and conversations. Life at home had continued, but something important had been missing.

Now he was finally home.

There were hugs, laughter, and the joyful excitement that fills a home when someone you love returns. The adults talked about the trip, unpacked suitcases, and settled back into the familiar rhythm of being together again. Eliana watched quietly as the house came back to life. Then, without saying a word, she slipped into another room.

A few moments later, she returned carrying three stuffed bunnies.

She walked over to her mother first and gently placed a bunny in her hands. Then she crossed the room and handed another bunny to her father. Holding the third bunny close to her own chest, she looked carefully at each of them, almost as if she were making sure everyone had exactly what they needed.

Only then did she smile.

No one had asked her to do it. No one explained what she was doing. The moment lasted only a few seconds before the conversation continued and the suitcases were unpacked.

Yet I could not stop thinking about those three bunnies, and what I had just witnessed.

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Looking Beyond the Bunny

It would have been easy to describe what happened as a simple act of sharing. A little girl gave a stuffed bunny to each of her parents and kept one for herself. It was thoughtful. It was sweet. It was exactly the kind of moment adults often notice before moving on.

But what if the bunnies were never really about sharing?

As educators, we often ask ourselves what children are doing. Observation invites us to ask a different question.

What are children thinking?

Why did every member of the family need a bunny? Why was it important that no one was left without one? What understanding was Eliana expressing that she could not yet explain with words?

Children often communicate their deepest ideas long before they can explain them. Their thinking emerges through play, movement, drawings, collections, and the ordinary objects they transform into something meaningful. Sometimes the object itself is unremarkable. What makes it extraordinary is the meaning the child gives it.

In that moment, the bunnies were no longer simply stuffed animals.

They had become symbols of family unity.

The Invisible Ideas Children Make Visible

One of the most remarkable accomplishments of early childhood is the development of symbolic thinking. Children gradually discover that one object can represent another. A cardboard box becomes a spaceship. A blanket becomes a cave. A stick becomes a fishing pole.

As their thinking grows, their symbols begin to represent ideas that cannot be seen or touched. They represent friendship, safety, love, belonging, and hope. In Eliana’s case, the bunnies represented her family and the joy of coming together.

Recent research continues to demonstrate that symbolic play is far more than imagination. It helps children organize memories, regulate emotions, communicate experiences, and build increasingly sophisticated understandings of the world. Through symbolic representation, children often express ideas far richer than their spoken language alone could convey (Weisberg, Hirsh-Pasek, & Golinkoff, 2022; Bergen, 2021).

Perhaps that is exactly what Eliana was doing.

Rather than telling her parents that the family belonged together again, she found a way to make togetherness visible.

A Theory About Family

Every family experiences periods of separation. Adults often understand them as temporary interruptions. Young children experience them differently. They are still developing an understanding of permanence, relationships, and the reassuring knowledge that the people they love continue to belong to them, even when they are somewhere else.

Attachment researchers describe this understanding as the development of internal working models, mental representations that allow children to carry important relationships with them across time and distance (Bretherton & Munholland, 2019). These understandings are not built only through conversation. They are built through everyday experiences and are often expressed through the symbolic languages children naturally use.

When Eliana placed a bunny into each person’s hands, she may have been doing much more than giving away toys.

She may have been expressing a theory.

Her theory was that families belong together.

Her theory was that everyone has a place.

Her theory was that togetherness can be represented, held, and restored.

Developmental scientist Cristine Legare describes children as active meaning makers who continually construct explanations that help them understand both the physical and social worlds around them (Legare, 2023). They do not simply absorb information from adults. They develop ideas, test those ideas through experience, and revise them over time.

That is exactly why moments like this deserve our attention.

When we focus only on the object, we miss the thinking.

When we become curious about the meaning children have attached to the object, we begin to discover the theories they are building about the world and about the people they love.

An Invitation to Wonder

Since I was visiting, Eliana eventually handed me a bunny, making me part of her family circle. As I reflected on Eliana’s three bunnies, I found myself thinking about something I have observed again and again in young children.

When an experience matters deeply, children rarely leave it behind.

Instead, they return to it.

Eliana’s three bunnies remind us that children often communicate their deepest understandings without saying very much at all.

As adults, we sometimes rush to explain, reassure, or interpret before we have fully observed what children are already telling us.

What symbols have the children in your life created to help themselves understand relationships, permanence, and attachment?

How might we preserve those symbols instead of replacing them with our own explanations? How might we create opportunities for children to return to them, adding new ideas and new understandings as their thinking continues to grow?

As I reflected on Eliana’s three bunnies, I found myself wondering what might happen if those bunnies remained part of her everyday life. Would they appear again in her play? Would they become part of new stories? Would they help her continue making sense of family, belonging, and togetherness long after her father’s return?

Those questions reminded me of something I have observed in children for many years.

When an experience carries deep meaning, children rarely leave it behind.

Instead, they find ways to return to it.

They revisit meaningful experiences through play, through stories, through drawings, through conversations, and through the objects that have come to represent their ideas. Each return is not simply a repetition of what came before. It is an opportunity to test a new theory, make a new connection, or see the experience from a different perspective.

Perhaps this is one of the most remarkable ways children learn. Revisiting allows them to strengthen the theories they are building about themselves, their relationships, and the world around them.

In the next Chronicle, we will explore why revisiting is far more than doing something again. It is one of the ways children transform meaningful experiences into lasting understanding.

Eliana's three bunnies remind us that belonging is never something we create alone. From our earliest years, we learn, grow, imagine, and make sense of the world through our relationships with others. We are all shaped by a beautiful web of in-dependence—a way of living that recognizes our ideas, strengths, and identities are woven together with those around us. If this reflection resonates with you, I invite you to join us for In-Dependence Camp, a thoughtful gathering of educators exploring what it means to live, learn, and lead in relationship. Together, we'll reflect on the spaces between I, you, and we, and discover how those connections deepen our understanding of ourselves, each other, and the children we walk alongside.

If this article resonated with you. I think you will also enjoy reading Before You Ask a Child to Put Away Their Lovey

References

Bergen, D. (2021). The role of pretend play in children’s cognitive, social, and emotional development. Early Childhood Education Journal, 49(5), 839–848.

Bretherton, I., & Munholland, K. A. (2019). Internal working models in attachment relationships. In J. Cassidy & P. R. Shaver (Eds.), Handbook of Attachment (3rd ed.). Guilford Press.

Legare, C. H. (2023). The Cognitive Science of Learning and Development. Cambridge University Press.

Weisberg, D. S., Hirsh-Pasek, K., & Golinkoff, R. M. (2022). Guided play and the development of children’s learning, imagination, and symbolic thinking. Current Directions in Psychological Science, 31(6), 540–547.

A few days after the puddle disappeared for the second time, I found myself going through my notes.

I wasn’t looking for anything in particular.

I was just wondering.

For almost a month, the children had been to the same place again and again, asking many of the same questions, and yet their interest never seemed to grow stale. It only got bigger. And I kept thinking, what if I went back to the experience the same way they did?

So I put together what I had gathered along the way. Pictures. Notes scrawled. Bits of conversation I’d written down on the spot. Sketches. Questions the children had spoken aloud. Observations I’d been making for weeks without knowing exactly what I was looking for.

And I began to search again.

What I Thought I Saw

When I saw the children gathering around the puddle, I thought at first they were interested in water.

This made sense. The puddle was big, it changed every day, and it beckoned them in without any coaxing. Naturally, they were attracted to it.

But as I looked back through the chronicles, something else started to come out.

The children weren’t really watching the water.

They were concentrating on what the water was doing.

Their questions came back again and again to the same thing – change. It went where? How did it get back? What happened while we were gone? Was it even the same puddle?

The puddle became a way for the children to get their hands around something much bigger than water. They were considering disappearance and return. Forever. About time too. What it means is that something changes and yet somehow it is the same thing.

The only way in was the water.

But under the surface, the real investigation was going on.

Observing the theories expand

One of the things I did not expect in going back through the documentation was how clearly I could see the children’s thinking change over time.

It’s hard to keep up with it right now. Each day is like something of its own. But when you line the observations up next to each other, you start to see patterns that were invisible at the time.

The explanations were very simple and immediate, very early.

“The sun drank it in.”

“It went into the dirt.”

“The clouds reclaimed it.”

In the weeks that followed, those initial ideas began to develop. The children started to draw connections, comparing how the puddle looked after rain with how it looked after a string of dry days. Noting that some puddles were drying faster than others. They tested their theories against new evidence and made adjustments when something didn’t quite fit.

They were not gathering answers. They were constructing something. Just like any real theory, what they were building was evolving as they learned more.

What Became Visible When I Looked At The Chronicles Again

Looking back at the information I collected together with the children, It also did something I didn’t expect.

The Chronicles contradicted what I thought I had seen.

If I had only been there for the first day, I would have called it sensory exploration, children finding out about water, mud, texture, movement. Had I seen only the second week, I might have called it science. If I had just seen the last days, I would have written about theories of weather and evaporation.

Any one of these descriptions would have been correct.

Not one of them would have told the whole story.

Only by going back and looking at the whole arc of what had happened could I see how much had happened. How far the children’s thinking had gone. How a little question had quietly grown into something much bigger.

The chronicles reminded me that children seldom seem to learn all at once. Meaning doesn’t arrive all at once. It takes time for patterns to appear. And sometimes it takes us just as long to figure it out.

What Chronicles and Documentation Can Really Be

I think we often see the Chronicles we document as a record of what has already happened. A picture taken. A written quotation. Constructed a display panel. Collected, cataloged, and archived evidence.

And it can be all those things.

But it could be more.

It might be an invitation to come back. To see something again you thought you had seen before. To see what you missed the first time through. To discover the question that was staring him in the face.

The children returned to the puddle because it kept giving them something new.

The chronicles did the same for me.

I returned to the questions I still had

Moments I still wonder about, even after the children had moved on to explore something new.

How do children hold on to an idea over days and weeks, especially when the thing they are investigating keeps disappearing? What keeps a question alive until it is developed? And what else is happening in the rooms children are returning to, in the things they keep reaching for, in the corners of the room they never seem to leave behind?

I have no clear answers to any of these.

I don’t even know if I necessarily need an answer.

The most important questions seldom have clear answers. What they leave behind, more often than not, are better questions than the ones you began with.

Invitation to Look Again

This week I want to invite you back to a collection of documents that chronicle you and the children have had.

To not organize it. Not to make it into a show. Just to see it again with a little more time and a little more distance than you had when you first picked it up.

Select a picture. A note that you made out. A conversation you half remembered and wrote on a sticky note. A moment that seemed ordinary at the time.

And ask yourself: what do I see now that I have not seen before? What could be hiding in there that I wasn’t ready to see the first time?

Because revisiting is not about going back.

It’s about finally seeing what was always there.

Sometimes the most important thing is not in the puddle itself.

It’s in what is revealed when you take the time to come back to it.

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Share a moment of return when you learned something unexpected that changed the way you looked at children.

The storm came through overnight and left the neighborhood soaked. By morning, the playground looked like somewhere else entirely. The ground was dark and heavy with water. The air smelled clean. And beneath the big oak at the center of the yard, a puddle had spread so wide and so still that the children had only one word for it.

A lake.

I could see the curiosity coming before it even arrived — the way a puddle could remake a place the children thought they already knew. That familiar corner of the playground, the one they had walked past a hundred times without a second glance, suddenly had them stopping in their tracks.

They moved toward it before anyone said a word.

One child crouched at the edge and stared into the water. Another set a leaf on the surface and watched it drift. A third leaned in so close her face nearly touched the reflection looking back at her.

“The clouds are inside,” she said.

More children gathered. Some touched the water with their fingertips. Some just stood there. Then one child pressed a stick into the mud at the water’s edge. Another added a second. Nobody suggested it. Nobody organized it. Before long, a row of sticks traced the line between water and earth — a quiet little border around something that felt worth marking.

The next morning, they came back.

The sticks were still there. The water wasn’t — not quite. It had pulled away, leaving a gap between the mud and the markers. The children noticed it right away.

“It’s smaller,” one of them said.

They went quiet. Studied the space. Tried to work out what had happened while they were away.

That was the beginning. Checking the puddle became part of the morning — before play, before going inside, sometimes both. They watched leaves drift across the surface. They noticed how the light changed it throughout the day. They watched the puddle get smaller.

And they started asking.

Where did the water go?

Why is it getting smaller?

Did the sun drink it?

Then one morning they arrived and stopped.

The puddle was gone.

Just damp earth where the water had been.

One child pressed a hand into the mud. Another walked the perimeter slowly, checking — as if the puddle had only moved and might still be found nearby. A third looked up at the sky.

“Maybe it went back to the clouds,” she said.

For days after, the children kept returning to the same spot even though there was nothing left to see. They pointed to the sticks. They talked through what they remembered. They argued about what had happened and offered theories with complete confidence.

Then it rained again.

The next morning, they ran.

It’s back!

They crowded around it like it was someone who had been away too long. They crouched, studied, compared what they were seeing now to everything they already knew.

This went on for nearly a month. The puddle came and went with the weather. The children’s attention never did. If anything, it deepened with every return — sharper each time, more questions, more to say. What had started as a puddle had quietly become something else: a place that kept changing just enough to keep pulling them back.

More Than a Puddle

At first glance, it looked as though the children were merely intrigued by the water.

But it wasn’t quite right.

The puddle was something for them to figure out. It was not a riddle with a simple answer, but a real question that kept changing shape, one that became more interesting the more they struggled with it. Where’s the water gone? Why did it return? Even if it was always the same puddle? Could clouds somehow turn to water and then back to clouds?

They weren’t looking for a telling off. They were learning it for themselves, visit by visit, observation by observation.

Something new every morning. Sometimes the water level had dropped overnight, the space between the sticks and the edge a little wider than it had been the day before. Some days, the mud along the border had darkened and cracked, curling up at the edges as if it were pulling away from something. Heavy rain had brought worms up to the surface, but they had disappeared as the ground dried out. Insects moved across the water in ways that didn’t seem possible, gliding, hovering, disappearing. The reflection also changed. Some mornings, it had slow clouds drifting through it. Sometimes the wind chopped up the surface, and then there was no reflection at all. The children watched it all.

Every change added something to what they thought they already knew.

What had appeared to be a puddle had become a living question.

Curiosity kept the children coming back. Every return, they had a new idea, a new observation, and many questions. I knew their thinking was not finished yet.

The Power of Returning

There’s a common assumption that learning is progressive. That once something’s been seen, it’s been learned, and it’s time to move on.

Observing the children exploring the lake told a different tale.

Their understanding didn’t deepen by encountering something new. It got deeper because they kept coming back to the same issue. Each return was a slightly different angle, a slightly different question, a slightly different version of what they thought they already knew.

A puddle after a rainstorm is an interesting thing.

A puddle over weeks becomes something else entirely.

It’s a place where children see patterns they never saw before, test theories against what actually happened, and quietly build a more complex picture of how the world works -- not because someone told them to, but because the puddle kept changing and they kept watching.

That is what revisiting allows.

Not coming back to repeat something, but coming back to find out what else is there. Moving on to the next thing often doesn’t result in meaningful learning. It comes from being with something long enough to be surprised by it.

What Might We Be Missing?

As educators, we’re always looking ahead. What’s the next activity, the next provocation, the next thing to put in front of children? There’s always something else ready to go.

But what if the most powerful invitation has already been extended?

What if the places that children keep returning to are telling us something -- about where their thinking is alive, where their questions have not yet been answered, where something still feels worth figuring out?

It is worth pausing to ask. What are children making meaning in their minds when they return to the same place, the same material, the same idea, day after day? If we began tracking those returns instead of redirecting them, what would we see? And what might happen to the way we see our role if we stopped seeing repetition as doing the same thing – and started to see it as thinking more deeply?

Because maybe the puddle was never the most interesting part of this story.

The most remarkable thing was that the children chose to return.

Again and again and again.

Children don’t go back to what is finished.

They go back to what is still unfolding.

Before You Plan What Comes Next

I want to leave you with this.

Walk through your space this week with fresh eyes. Notice where the children linger. Notice what they return to without being asked. Notice the corner that keeps calling them back, the material they can’t seem to leave alone, the question that resurfaces no matter how many times the day moves on.

And then ask yourself — what is still unfolding here?

Because the puddle didn’t announce itself as something important. It just showed up after a storm and waited. The children were the ones who recognized it for what it was.

Maybe that’s our invitation too. Not to introduce the next thing, but to look more carefully at what’s already there — and trust that the children have been trying to show us where the real learning lives all along.

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Revisiting the Stick Nobody Was Allowed to Touch

At first, the stick seemed to be the problem.

Remy carried it everywhere he went. He became upset when another child touched it. If it was misplaced, he would search for it with great determination. When adults offered him another stick, even one that appeared nearly identical, he rejected it. To those observing from the outside, his attachment seemed puzzling. Conversations naturally gravitated toward concerns about possession, flexibility, and whether his reliance on the stick was preventing him from engaging more fully with other possibilities.

It would have been easy to stop there.

It would have been easy to see the stick as something that needed to be managed.

But revisiting asks us to return to moments we think we understand and look again. It invites us to slow down, suspend our certainty, and consider that what first appears obvious may not tell the whole story.

As educators revisited their observations of Remy, a different question began to emerge. Rather than wondering why he was so attached to the stick, they began wondering what the stick might be making possible.

That shift changed everything.

As conversations with Remy unfolded and documentation was revisited, the stick began to reveal a story that had been hidden in plain sight. The stick was not simply an object he carried from place to place. It was a tool he used to think. It helped him create roads in the dirt, connect locations across the playground, mark significant places, and retrace journeys he had taken. The stick served as a way to represent ideas that were larger than words.

The stick, Remy explained, was a map.

Suddenly, what had appeared to be attachment looked very different. What adults initially interpreted as possessiveness was actually purpose. What seemed like rigidity was an investigation. The stick was supporting a complex exploration of pathways, connections, memory, and place.

The object itself had never been the story.

The story was the thinking.

This experience reminded us how often children use materials as languages for exploring ideas. A treasured rock may hold a theory about collection and classification. A blanket may support an exploration of comfort, identity, or belonging. A cardboard box may become a vehicle for imagining possibilities that do not yet exist. Children often choose materials not because of what the materials are, but because of what the materials allow them to think about.

When we focus only on the object, we risk missing the ideas it carries.

Looking back, one of the most significant lessons from revisiting Remy’s experience was recognizing how easily adult interpretations can narrow our view. Initially, the conversation centered on the behavior. Why was he carrying the stick? Why was he upset when others touched it? Why wouldn’t he choose another one?

These questions were understandable, but they kept our attention fixed on the surface of the experience.

Only when we revisited the moment did we begin to see what lay beneath it.

The stick was helping Remy represent relationships between places. It was helping him remember where he had been and imagine where he might go. It allowed him to make his thinking visible in ways that spoken language alone could not yet accomplish.

What if we had taken it away?

That question lingers.

How many investigations have been interrupted because adults misunderstood the role a material was playing in a child’s thinking? How many theories remain invisible because we focus on managing the object rather than understanding the relationship?

Revisiting reminds us that children’s ideas are often hidden inside ordinary moments. The challenge is not simply to observe those moments but to return to them. To look again. To listen again. To consider new possibilities for interpretation.

Remy’s stick was never really about a stick.

It was about mapping a world.

It was about making sense of relationships, places, journeys, and connections.

Most importantly, it reminds us that when we revisit children’s experiences with curiosity, we often discover that what first appeared ordinary was carrying an extraordinary idea all along.

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Before you read this post. I want to personally invite you to join me in exploring children’s thinking at the In-Dependence Camp. I am honored to partner with the Center for Playful Inquiry this summer. Register and come and learn with an incredible group of educators and your camp counselors, Jessie Frazier and Miriam Beloglovsky

At first glance, the stick seemed entirely ordinary. It was not particularly long or unusually shaped. It wasn’t smooth or polished. It wasn’t decorated or transformed into something else. If you walked past it lying on the playground, you probably wouldn’t notice it at all.

Yet every day, Remy searched for it. The moment he arrived outdoors, he began looking. If the stick was where he had left it, he relaxed. If it had been moved, he searched until he found it. If another child picked it up, he rushed over and asked to have it. If someone carried it away, he would start crying.

The educators and Remy’s family were puzzled. The playground was filled with sticks. Larger sticks. Straighter sticks. More interesting sticks. Yet none of them would do. It had to be that stick.

As the days passed, educators began to question whether the stick had become a problem. They did not know what to do when Remy cried upon seeing another child holding it. They became concerned and wondered if he was becoming too attached. Maybe it would be better if the stick disappeared altogether. After all, wouldn’t it be easier if he simply chose another one?

These questions are familiar in early childhood settings. We often find ourselves wondering why children become so attached to particular objects, places, or routines. Sometimes those attachments create conflict. Sometimes they are difficult for others to understand. Sometimes we worry that a child’s focus has become too narrow. Sometimes attachment to inanimate objects is viewed as a sign of a deeper concern, including possible behavioral or developmental challenges.

Yet something invited the educators to pause.

Instead of solving the problem, they decided to become curious.

One morning, Sol, one of the educators, sat beside Remy and asked a simple question.

“What makes this stick so important?”

Remy looked down at the stick and smiled.

“It’s my map stick,” he said.

A map stick.

The answer surprised everyone.

Sol leaned in and asked, “Tell me more about your map stick.”

A simple question that opened the door to many answers and a deeper understanding.

For the next several minutes, Remy explained how the stick helped him draw roads across the dirt. It connected places together. It marked where he had been and where he planned to go. Sometimes it became a bridge. Sometimes a boundary. Sometimes it showed other children the way to a place he had discovered.

As he spoke, children and educators alike gathered closer. The children listened and asked questions, which Remy answered with excitement. The educators began to see something they had missed. The stick was not simply an object. It was a tool for thinking. It helped Remy represent ideas that mattered to him. It helped him organize space, revisit experiences, and imagine possibilities. The stick supported his investigations in much the same way a pencil supports a writer or a paintbrush supports an artist.

What looked like an attachment to an inanimate object was actually an intention.

What looked like possession was actually purpose.

When Attachment Looks Like a Problem

In early childhood settings, it is easy to focus on the behavior we see. A child cries when someone touches an object. A child insists on carrying the same item every day. A child returns to the same place, the same material, or the same routine over and over again.

From an adult perspective, these behaviors can feel limiting. They can disrupt the flow of the day, create conflict among children, or raise questions about flexibility and social participation.

Yet what if our concern sometimes arrives before our curiosity?

What if the behavior is not the story?

What if it is simply the doorway?

When we become preoccupied with helping children let go of an object, we may miss the possibility that the object is helping them hold onto an idea.

The challenge is not that educators ask questions. The challenge is that we sometimes ask the wrong ones.

Instead of asking, “How do we get the child to stop carrying the object?” perhaps we might ask, “What is the object helping the child understand?”

What If Objects Are Languages?

Remy’s stick was never really just a stick.

It was a language.

Children often communicate through materials long before they can fully express complex ideas through words. A rock, a collection of bottle caps, a drawing, a photograph, a blanket, or a treasured stuffed animal can represent experiences, relationships, memories, and theories about the world.

When children repeatedly return to an object, they may be returning to an idea.

The object becomes a companion in their thinking.

It helps them revisit questions, reconstruct experiences, and make meaning from their lives.

This is why the Museum of Important Things has been such a powerful idea in my work. The objects children treasure are rarely important in themselves. They are important because of what they represent.

To the child, the object may hold a memory, a relationship, a feeling of safety, a question, or a possibility.

The object often carries a story.

Our task is not to decide whether the story is important. Our task is to listen for it.

The idea that objects can carry meaning for children is not new. Pediatrician and psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott described treasured objects as “transitional objects” because they help children navigate the space between dependence and independence (Winnicott, 1953). While a blanket, stuffed animal, or special toy may appear ordinary to an adult, it can provide comfort, continuity, and connection for a child. Remy’s stick was not a traditional transitional object, yet it served a similar purpose. It helped him bridge ideas, experiences, and relationships as he explored and made sense of his world.

Researchers and educators have also long recognized that children think through materials. Loris Malaguzzi reminded us that children have “a hundred languages” for expressing their ideas, theories, and understandings of the world (Edwards, Gandini, & Forman, 2012). We often think of drawing, painting, sculpture, movement, and dramatic play as those languages. Yet a stick becomes a language too. Through his map stick, Remy was communicating ideas about place, connection, movement, and possibility. The stick was not distracting him from learning; it was helping him learn.

Looking Beyond the Object

How often does this happen in our work with children?

A child carries the same rock every day. A child insists on sitting in the same place. A child returns to the same collection of materials over and over again. A child protects an object that appears insignificant to everyone else.

From the outside, these behaviors can seem puzzling. Yet beneath them may be theories, questions, memories, relationships, and investigations that are deeply important to the child.

When we focus only on the object, we risk missing the thinking. The stick was never really about the stick. It was about mapping. It was about connecting. It was about making sense of the world.

Perhaps one of the most important questions we can ask ourselves is not, “Why won’t Remy let go of that object?”

Perhaps the better question is:

“What work is this object helping the Remy do?”

This week, notice the objects that children repeatedly carry, protect, collect, or return to. Before asking them to put the object away, pause and wonder. What story might be hidden inside it? What theory might be unfolding through it? What possibility might we miss if we never stop to ask?

The educators almost focused entirely on the stick. Had they done so, they might have missed the map. By missing the map, they might have missed an opportunity to understand how Remy was making sense of his world.

I’d love to hear from you.

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What object has a child treasured in your setting, and what did it eventually reveal about their thinking?

If this article sparked a new way of thinking, please share it with a colleague, friend, or educator who might appreciate the conversation.

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Quotable Reflection

“The object was never the problem. Our inability to see what it meant was.”

References

Winnicott, D. W. (1953). Transitional objects and transitional phenomena. International Journal of Psychoanalysis, 34, 89–97.

Edwards, C., Gandini, L., & Forman, G. (Eds.). (2012). The Hundred Languages of Children: The Reggio Emilia Experience in Transformation (3rd ed.). Praeger.

This is a continuation of this week’s Chronicles of Children’s Thinking post, offering reflective strategies, examples, and invitations to help you deepen your understanding and application of children’s thinking in everyday practice.

When Jerome said, “The shadow is following me because it wants to be my friend,” he wasn’t simply making a statement. He was constructing a theory to explain something he observed. Like all children, Jerome was drawing upon his experiences, relationships, observations, and imagination to make sense of the world.

Too often, when children share theories, we as adults feel responsible for providing answers. We explain, correct, and teach. Yet in doing so, we may unintentionally interrupt the very process that drives deep learning: theory building.

What if, instead of rushing to explain, we treated children’s theories as invitations for investigation?

Jerome’s shadow offers us a powerful example.

Step 1: Listen for the Theory

When Jerome noticed his shadow following him around the playground, he became fascinated and began to investigate. He walked a few steps and noticed that the shadow walked too. He ran across the yard, and the shadow ran alongside him. When he stopped, the shadow stopped.

Over and over, Jerome tested what he was observing, carefully watching the relationship between his movements and the dark shape that seemed to stay by his side. After gathering what he believed was enough evidence, Jerome confidently announced, "The shadow is following me because it wants to be my friend." This statement was much more than a cute comment. It was a theory.

Jerome was attempting to explain a phenomenon that intrigued him by drawing upon something he already understood: friendship. From his perspective, friends stay close, spend time together, and rarely leave their side.

By connecting his observations to his experiences with relationships, Jerome was constructing meaning and making sense of the world around him. The first step in supporting children's thinking is learning to recognize these moments for what they truly are—not random comments but thoughtful theories that reveal how children interpret their experiences and build understanding.

Ask yourself:

• What is the child trying to explain?

• What patterns has the child noticed?

• What experiences might be influencing their thinking?

• What theory is hidden inside their words?

When we begin listening closely, we discover that children are constantly constructing explanations about how the world works.

Step 2: Slow Down Before Explaining

Our instinct is often to replace a child's theory with information. When Jerome said that his shadow wanted to be his friend, we might have been tempted to respond, "Actually, shadows are created when light is blocked." While that explanation may be accurate, it could also close the door on Jerome's investigation before we fully understand his thinking. I also think it stops that magnificent, magical feeling that Jerome was experiencing.

Instead, we can respond with curiosity by asking, "What makes you think your shadow wants to be your friend?" or "What have you noticed about your shadow?" We might also wonder with him, "Does it always follow you?" These kinds of questions invite children to think more deeply about their observations, gather more evidence, and stay connected to their own process of meaning-making.

More importantly, they communicate something powerful:

Your thinking matters.

The goal is not to avoid scientific explanations. The goal is to create space for children’s ideas before introducing our own.

Step 3: Make the Thinking Visible

Children’s theories are often fleeting. Without documentation, they can disappear as quickly as they emerge. Capture the moment.

You might:

• Photograph Jerome exploring his shadow.

• Record his exact words.

• Document the actions that led to his theory.

• Write down your observations of his investigation.

Most importantly, preserve the child’s language. Rather than documenting:

“Jerome learned about shadows.”

Document:

“The shadow is following me because it wants to be my friend.”

Children’s words reveal how they are making meaning. They offer a window into their thinking that no checklist or assessment can capture.

Step 4: Look Beneath the Theory

At first glance, Jerome's theory appears to be about shadows. However, when we listen more carefully to his words, we discover that his theory is rooted in something much deeper than the movement of light and dark.

Jerome drew on his understanding of relationships, friendship, connection, and belonging to explain what he observed. From his perspective, friends stay close to one another, spend time together, and rarely leave each other's side. Because his shadow followed him wherever he went, it made perfect sense to conclude that the shadow wanted to be his friend.

When we look beneath children's theories, we often uncover the larger ideas they are exploring and trying to understand. The shadow was not simply a shadow; it became a way for Jerome to think about companionship, connection, and relationships.

By paying attention to these deeper meanings, we gain valuable insight into children's thinking and can create investigations that honor their theories, nurture their curiosity, and support them in constructing their own understanding rather than simply receiving facts from adults.

Step 5: Revisit the Theory

This is where learning begins to deepen.

A day later, a week later, or even a month later, return to the documentation.

Show Jerome the photographs.

Read back his words.

Invite him to revisit his thinking.

You might ask:

• What do you remember about your shadow?

• Do you still think it wanted to be your friend?

• What new things have you noticed?

• Has your theory changed?

Revisiting allows children to compare earlier ideas with new experiences.

It helps them see learning as an evolving process rather than a search for the right answer.

Step 6: Invite Collective Thinking

What happens when Jerome's theory becomes part of a larger conversation within the learning community? Imagine displaying a photograph of Jerome exploring his shadow alongside his words, "The shadow is following me because it wants to be my friend." As other children encounter the documentation, they may begin sharing their own observations and theories. One child might say, "My shadow follows me too," while another notices, "Mine gets really big when the sun is low."

Another child may wonder, "Sometimes my shadow disappears." What began as one child's theory suddenly expands into a collective investigation. Children start comparing experiences, noticing similarities and differences, building upon one another's ideas, and generating new questions.

Through these conversations, they are not only exploring shadows but also learning how to listen to multiple perspectives, negotiate meaning, and construct knowledge together. The investigation becomes richer because it is no longer held by a single child. Instead, it becomes a shared journey of inquiry where learning is collaborative, relationships are strengthened, and children's thinking becomes visible to the entire community.

Step 7: Follow the Questions

When children’s theories become visible, new possibilities emerge.

Inspired by Jerome’s investigation, children might:

• Trace their shadows at different times of the day.

• Compare shadow sizes in the morning and afternoon.

• Photograph shadows around the playground.

• Create stories about where shadows go.

• Notice how shadows change when clouds move overhead.

• Explore what happens when two shadows meet.

The goal is not to lead children toward a predetermined lesson about light and shadow.

The goal is to nurture dispositions that support lifelong learning:

• Wondering

• Observing

• Predicting

• Investigating

• Reflecting

• Revising ideas

These are the habits of thinkers, researchers, and innovators.

An Invitation to Notice

This week, pay attention to the shadows. Notice when children stop to observe them, follow them, talk to them, or wonder about them. Listen carefully to the theories they share and resist the urge to rush toward an explanation. Instead, document their words, photograph their investigations, and preserve the moments that reveal how they are making meaning of what they observe. Then return to those ideas a few days later and invite children to think again. What do they remember? What new observations have they made? Has their theory changed or expanded?

As you engage in this process, consider the following question: What might happen if I treated a child’s theory not as a misconception to correct, but as a journey worth revisiting? Jerome’s shadow may or may not have been his friend, but his theory offered something far more valuable than an explanation of shadows. It offered a glimpse into his thinking, revealing how he drew on his understanding of friendship and relationships to make sense of an intriguing phenomenon. When we chronicle, revisit, and honor children’s theories, we communicate a powerful message: Your ideas matter. Your theories are worthy of investigation. Your thinking is worth remembering.

Join the Conversation

I would love to hear from you. What is the most memorable theory a child has shared recently?

Perhaps it was about a shadow, a puddle, an insect, a friendship, the moon, or something entirely unexpected.

What explanation did the child construct?

What were they trying to understand?

Share the child's exact words in the comments. Together, we can create a collective chronicle of children's theories and celebrate the extraordinary ways children observe, question, interpret, and make meaning of the world around them.

A Note to My Readers

This edition of The Chronicles of Children’s Thinking is different from my usual reflections on children’s theories, inquiries, and learning journeys. Yet I believe it may be one of the most important pieces I have written.

As educators, advocates, and human beings, we cannot speak about children’s well-being, belonging, and rights while ignoring the children who are living in fear, separated from their families, displaced by war, or confined behind walls. Their stories matter. Their voices matter. Their humanity matters.

I invite you to read this piece with an open heart, to reflect on what it means to truly stand for children, and to consider how we might collectively restore hope, dignity, and freedom for every child.

When Survival Replaces Wonder

Today, I saw drawings created by children living in detention facilities. I heard the stories of families and children who have been detained and forced to live in conditions no human being should endure. I saw the faces of children who are hungry and living in fear. As I listened and witnessed their stories, I found myself asking: What has happened to our collective humanity?

In The Chronicles of Children’s Thinking, I usually write about children’s theories, questions, and remarkable capacities for making meaning of the world around them. I write about curiosity. I write about wonder. I write about the hundred languages children use to express their ideas and the journeys they take as they construct understanding of the world.

But today, I am thinking about the children sitting inside detention centers. I am thinking about children who have lost their homes, their communities, and, in some cases, the people they love most. I am thinking about children living in areas devastated by war, children separated from their families, children whose days are consumed not by discovery and possibility but by uncertainty and fear.

And I am wondering: What happens to children’s thinking when survival becomes their only concern?

A child whose mind is occupied by questions such as When will I see my mother again? Will my father come home? When will I eat? Why am I here? When will I be free? cannot easily engage in the kinds of intellectual journeys we celebrate in our classrooms.

Fear narrows possibilities. Trauma constricts imagination. Uncertainty silences inquiry. The very conditions that nourish children’s thinking—safety, belonging, connection, and hope—are being stripped away one cell at a time, one bomb at a time, one home lost at a time.

As educators, we understand that children do not learn in isolation from their emotional lives. We know that relationships matter. We know that children thrive when they feel secure enough to take risks, ask questions, and construct theories about the world. We know that learning flourishes when children experience belonging and trust.

Yet despite what we know, too many of us have remained silent. Too many of us have continued with our daily lives without speaking out for the children who need our voices to protect them.

There is another truth we must confront.

As educators, we cannot continue to speak about children’s well-being without recognizing that there are children today separated from their families, living in fear, and carrying a hunger that extends far beyond food.

It is a hunger for freedom.

A hunger for safety.

A hunger for belonging.

A hunger to be held by the people who love them.

We cannot celebrate children’s rights, advocate for social-emotional development, or speak passionately about creating environments where children thrive while remaining silent about children whose daily lives are shaped by confinement, uncertainty, displacement, and loss.

Children’s well-being is not selective. It does not belong only to the children in our classrooms, our neighborhoods, or our communities. It belongs to every child.

How can children theorize about butterflies, shadows, bridges, or justice when they are consumed by the uncertainty of tomorrow? How can they imagine possibilities when their own futures feel locked behind walls?

Recently, I listened to a song written collectively by people who have stood outside detention centers, including Ms. Rachel and others who have witnessed the experiences of detained families firsthand. It is a song about bringing down the walls. It is a song that refuses to stop singing until everyone is free.

Its message reminds us that the walls we must dismantle are not only made of concrete and steel.

They are the walls that separate families.

The walls of fear.

The walls of indifference.

The walls we build when we decide that some children matter less than others.

As educators, we often speak of giving children a voice. But there are moments when children need more than a voice. They need adults willing to use theirs—to protect them, to keep them safe, and to demand a world worthy of their childhoods.

Hope is not something children create alone. Hope is built collectively. It is restored when communities refuse to look away. It grows when people stand together and insist that children deserve dignity, belonging, and freedom.

Every child deserves to wake up knowing they are safe. Every child deserves to be with the people who love them. Every child deserves opportunities to think, dream, question, create, and imagine futures filled with possibility.

Children belong in communities, schools, playgrounds, and places where their ideas can flourish—not in environments where fear becomes the dominant language of their lives.

The measure of a society is not how it treats its most powerful members. It is how it treats its children.

Today, I am holding close the children whose thinking has been interrupted by detention, separation, war, displacement, and uncertainty. I am thinking about the questions they carry and the hopes they cling to. I am thinking about the futures they deserve.

Our commitment to children must extend beyond our classrooms. It must extend to every place where children are waiting, wondering, and hoping to be free. Until then, our conversations about children’s well-being remain incomplete.

Two Calls to Action:

Postcards of Hope

Words matter. Images matter. Collective action matters.

If you have been moved by the stories of children living in detention centers, refugee camps, war zones, or other places where childhood itself is under threat, I invite you to participate in Postcards of Hope.

Create a postcard. On one side, include a child’s drawing, artwork, photograph, or image that reflects hope, belonging, freedom, peace, family, or community. On the other side, write a brief message to an elected official or community leader.

You might begin with:

Every child deserves...

I hope for a world where...

Children belong...

Freedom means...

Mail your postcard and encourage others to do the same.

Let thousands of postcards arrive carrying a simple message:

Every child deserves to be safe.

Every child deserves to belong.

Every child deserves to be free.

Together, our voices can become impossible to ignore.

The 100 Languages of Freedom

Alongside the postcard campaign, I invite educators and families to engage children in a project called The 100 Languages of Freedom. Inspired in the work for peace and children’s rights of the Schools of Reggio Emilia.

Begin with a question:

What does freedom mean to you?

Listen carefully to children’s theories, questions, and ideas. Invite them to express their thinking through drawing, painting, sculpture, clay, wire, music, movement, dance, poetry, storytelling, photography, collage, loose parts, dramatic play, construction, and any other language they choose.

Ask:

What helps people feel free?

What makes people feel safe?

What does belonging look like?

What happens when someone is separated from the people they love?

What would you wish for every child in the world?

Document children’s thinking. Collect their words, theories, drawings, and creations into a classroom, school, community, or online exhibit called The 100 Languages of Freedom.

Let us listen deeply to what children have to teach us.

Let us raise our voices and speak loudly and clearly until every child is safe.

Until every child belongs.

Until every child is free.

Please Share and Take Action

If this reflection resonates with you, please share it widely—with educators, families, community leaders, artists, advocates, and anyone who believes that every child deserves dignity, belonging, and freedom. The more voices that join this conversation, the harder it becomes to ignore the children whose lives have been interrupted by fear, separation, and uncertainty.

I also invite you to participate in the Postcards of Hope campaign and the 100 Languages of Freedom project. Document your journey. Capture children’s theories, questions, artwork, stories, and acts of compassion. Share your photographs, documentation panels, classroom projects, family conversations, and community exhibits. Together, we can create a collective tapestry of hope and action that reminds the world that children are not statistics—they are thinkers, dreamers, citizens, and human beings deserving of love, safety, belonging, and freedom.

Please share your work back with our community so that we can learn from one another, amplify children’s voices, and continue building a movement that refuses to look away until every child is free to wonder.

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During the afternoon outdoor play, children raced across the yard, moved the heavy tires around, built forts with large blocks and imagination fabric. Their laughter mixed with the sounds of tricycles rolling around the track, conversations, and the occasional squeal of delight when a new discovery was made. The afternoon sun created long shadows across the playground.

Amid the sounds and images of children busily playing, Jerome suddenly stopped.

He looked down at the ground beside him and stood perfectly still. He was noticing his shadow. When he stopped, His shadow stood still, too.

Curious, he took a step forward.

The shadow moved.

He took another step.

The shadow followed.

Jerome smiled. He began to walk faster, glancing down every few moments. The shadow stayed close and followed Jerome’s every move. Soon, he was running across the playground, testing his discovery. No matter where he went, his shadow went with him.

Jerome zigzagged between children.

His shadow zigzagged.

Jerome lifted one leg

The shadow lifted one leg too.

Finally, Jerome stopped and studied his shadow carefully. His brow furrowed as he pieced together what he was observing. After a long pause, he looked up at me and said with complete certainty,

“Look the shadow is following me because it wants to be my friend.”

His words hung in the air.

I could have explained shadows. I could have talked about sunlight, bodies blocking light, and how shadows are formed. Instead, I chose to stay inside his thinking.

“What makes you think it wants to be your friend?” I asked.

He looked down again at the dark shape beside him.

“Because it never leaves me.”

I smiled.

More Than a Shadow: What Children’s Theories Reveal

To Jerome, this wasn’t a lesson about science. It was a story about relationships. He was drawing from what he knew about friendship. Friends stay close. Friends follow you. Friends want to be with you. Drawing on those experiences, he was making sense of a phenomenon that felt both mysterious and alive.

As he continued to experiment, I watched him test his theory. He ran away from the shadow, and it came with him. He hid behind a climbing structure, and there it was. He waved to it, then waved again. Each new action became another piece of evidence supporting his theory. He wasn’t simply playing; he was investigating, observing, and gathering information.

Children do this every day. They notice patterns, form theories, collect evidence, revise their ideas, and search for meaning. Their theories are not mistakes waiting to be corrected. Rather, they are invitations into their thinking. They offer us a glimpse into how children are making sense of the world around them.

Standing there on the playground, I was reminded that children often see possibilities where adults see facts. A shadow becomes a friend. A puddle becomes an ocean. A stick becomes a magic wand. The world is not yet neatly divided into categories of what is real and what is imagined. Instead, it is a place filled with wonder, possibility, relationships, and endless opportunities for meaning-making.

The shadow followed Jerome for the rest of the afternoon. And perhaps, in a way, it really was his friend. Not because it was alive, but because it inspired him to think, to question, to wonder, and to create meaning. It accompanied him on a journey of discovery, inviting him to test ideas and construct theories about the world. And that is the kind of friendship that nurtures learning.

If only we all could learn to make friends with our shadows.

Connecting to a Larger Idea: Children Build Theories Through Relationships

When Jerome suggested that his shadow was following him because it wanted to be his friend, he was doing what children do naturally: constructing a theory to explain his experience.

Researchers have found that young children often think about shadows as more than the absence of light. From a theory-building perspective, Jerome’s idea was not unusual. Like many young children, Jerome was drawing on what he knew about relationships to explain a phenomenon he was carefully observing. His shadow stayed close, mirrored his actions, and never left. Through the lens of friendship, the mystery became understandable.

Developmental psychologist Alison Gopnik describes children as active theory builders who continuously develop explanations about how the world works (Gopnik, Meltzoff, & Kuhl, 1999). Rather than waiting for adults to provide answers, children observe patterns, gather evidence, test ideas, and revise their thinking. Learning begins with curiosity.

From Jerome’s perspective, the evidence was compelling. The shadow followed him wherever he went. When he stopped, it stopped. When he ran, it ran. When he lifted one leg, it lifted one leg too. Drawing on his understanding of friendship, Jerome developed a theory that made sense of what he observed: the shadow wanted to be his friend.

Developmental psychologist Alison Gopnik (2009) argues that children are constantly searching for explanations that connect their experiences to what they already know. Jerome’s theory emerged from his lived experience of relationships. Friends stay close. Friends follow each other. Friends do things together. Through this lens, the shadow’s behavior became understandable.

Professor at Harvard School of Education Paul Harris (2000) reminds us that children’s thinking often moves fluidly between observation and imagination. Imagination is not the opposite of rational thought; it is one of the ways children explore possibilities and make sense of experiences that are not yet fully understood. Jerome was not ignoring evidence. He was using both evidence and imagination to construct meaning.

This perspective resonates with the work of professor Carla Rinaldi (2006) and the educators of Reggio Emilia, who encourage us to view children’s theories as intellectual resources rather than misconceptions. Children’s ideas offer insight into how they are interpreting the world. When we listen carefully, we discover not only what children know but also how they are making meaning.

What strikes me most about Jerome’s theory is that it was not really about shadows.

It was about relationships.

His explanation reveals a deep human tendency to understand the unfamiliar through connection. Jerome interpreted the shadow through one of the most meaningful experiences in his life: friendship.

When we listen closely to children’s theories, we often discover that beneath the surface of their words lies something much bigger than the topic itself.

A theory about a shadow becomes a theory about belonging.

A theory about friendship becomes a theory about connection.

And in those moments, we are given a glimpse into the extraordinary ways children make sense of their world.

Revisiting Children’s Theories

Jerome’s theory about his shadow invites us to consider an important question:

What do we do when children share their theories with us?

Too often, our first response is to explain. We rush to provide the scientific answer, believing that learning happens when children receive correct information. Yet when we immediately replace a child’s theory with our own explanation, we may miss an opportunity to understand how that child is making meaning.

Instead, what if we treated children’s theories as worthy of investigation?

Rather than correcting Jerome’s thinking, I could document it.

I could photograph him exploring his shadow.

I could write down his exact words:

“Maybe the shadow is following me because it wants to be my friend.”

I could return to the experience later and invite him to revisit his theory.

“What do you remember about your shadow?”

“Do you still think it wanted to be your friend?”

“What new things have you noticed?”

Through revisiting, children have opportunities to reflect on their earlier ideas, consider new evidence, and refine their theories. Revisiting is not about determining whether children’s ideas are right or wrong. It is about creating space for deeper thinking.

Imagine placing photographs of Jerome and his shadow alongside his words. Perhaps other children would offer their own theories.

“My shadow follows me too.”

“My shadow gets bigger.”

“My shadow disappears when it’s cloudy.”

The conversation could expand from one child’s observation into a collective investigation.

Children might begin tracing shadows with chalk throughout the day, comparing their shapes and sizes. They might photograph shadows in different locations. They might notice that shadows change depending on the position of the sun. Through these experiences, new questions would emerge and new theories would develop.

The goal is not to lead children toward a predetermined answer.

Jerome’s theory about his shadow invites us to consider an important question: What do we do when children share their theories with us?

Too often, our first response is to explain. We rush to provide the scientific answer, believing that learning happens when children receive correct information. Yet when we immediately replace a child’s theory with our own explanation, we may miss an opportunity to understand how that child is making meaning. Instead, what if we treated children’s theories as worthy of investigation?

Rather than correcting Jerome’s thinking, you could document it. You could photograph him exploring his shadow and write down his exact words: “Maybe the shadow is following me because it wants to be my friend.” You could return to the experience later and invite him to revisit his theory by asking, “What do you remember about your shadow?” “Do you still think it wanted to be your friend?” “What new things have you noticed?”

Through revisiting, children have opportunities to reflect on their earlier ideas, consider new evidence, and refine their theories. Revisiting is not about determining whether children’s ideas are right or wrong. It is about creating space for deeper thinking.

Imagine placing photographs of Jerome and his shadow alongside his words. Perhaps other children would offer their own theories:

“My shadow follows me too.”

“My shadow gets bigger.”

“My shadow disappears when it’s cloudy.”

The conversation could expand from one child’s observation into a collective investigation. Children might begin tracing shadows with chalk throughout the day, comparing their shapes and sizes. They might photograph shadows in different locations. They might notice that shadows change depending on the position of the sun.

Through these experiences, new questions would emerge and new theories would develop. The goal is not to lead children toward a predetermined answer. The goal is to nurture their dispositions to wonder, observe, question, predict, and reflect.

When we document and revisit children’s theories, we send a powerful message: Your ideas matter. Your thinking is worth remembering. Your theories are worthy of investigation. And perhaps most importantly, learning is not something adults deliver to children. It is something children actively construct as they make sense of their world. Jerome’s shadow may or may not have been his friend, but his theory gave us something far more valuable than an explanation of shadows. It gave us a window into his thinking.

The Gift of Revisiting

Perhaps the greatest gift we can offer children is not an answer to their questions, but the assurance that their theories are worth revisiting.

When we slow down long enough to document, reflect upon, and return to children’s ideas, we communicate that their thinking matters. We honor their efforts to make meaning of the world and invite them to see themselves as capable thinkers whose ideas are worthy of investigation. Jerome’s theory about his shadow was never really about shadows—it was about friendship, connection, and belonging.

By revisiting his theory rather than replacing it with an explanation, we create space for curiosity to deepen, understanding to evolve, and learning to become a journey rather than a destination. In doing so, we remind ourselves that the most important thing children carry with them is not the answer they were given, but the confidence that their questions, theories, and wonderings are worth pursuing.

Need a Fresh Perspective on a Child's Theory?

Many educators tell me they hear remarkable ideas from children every day but aren’t always sure how to document them, revisit them, or transform them into meaningful learning opportunities. Through my coaching sessions, I help educators learn how to recognize children’s theories, document their thinking, and use the Revisiting Journeys framework to deepen inquiry, strengthen relationships, and make learning visible.

Free Documentation Review

Do you have a child’s question, theory, or observation that has stayed with you?

Submit one observation from your classroom {https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLScEbZ8RKsIOB8HacHs-E8mA5XGyWGrVeNT2_KM6TiA8nINDTw/viewform?usp=publish-editor}, and I’ll send you three personalized Revisiting Journeys questions to help deepen the investigation and make children’s thinking more visible.

For example:

“The moon follows our car.”

“The worms come out because they miss the rain.”

“Maybe the shadow is following me because it wants to be my friend.”

You’ll receive:

• Three inquiry questions to extend the thinking

• Ideas for documentation

• Suggestions for revisiting the theory with children

This complimentary review is designed to help you experience the Revisiting Journeys Framework in action and discover new possibilities for curriculum inspired by children’s ideas.

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Many educators have mixed feelings about children bringing loveys, stuffed animals, blankets, and treasured objects into the classroom. We worry they might get lost or damaged. We worry another child will want to play with them, creating conflict and tears. We worry that children will become dependent on them and struggle to engage with the classroom community. We worry that one special object will quickly turn into twenty. These concerns are real and come from a place of caring for both the child and the group.

Educators spend much of their day helping children navigate relationships, solve problems, and care for shared spaces. Adding a beloved object from home can sometimes feel like one more thing to manage. So when a child arrives clutching a worn blanket or a stuffed animal with only one eye left, it can be tempting to say, “Let’s put that in your cubby until it’s time to go home.”

Before we do, perhaps we can pause and ask a different question:

What if that object belongs in the child’s Museum of Important Things?

When we ask children to put away a treasured object, we may also be setting aside something that carries meaning, memory, comfort, identity, or connection. Rather than immediately focusing on how to manage the object, what might happen if we first became curious about its story?

Tomorrow, when a child arrives with a lovey, blanket, stuffed animal, photograph, rock, toy, or other treasured object, try asking, “Can you tell me why this is important to you?” Then listen carefully to what they share.

You might hear that a grandmother gave it to them, that they sleep with it every night, or that it helps them when they miss a parent. What begins as a conversation about an object often becomes a conversation about relationships, memories, and belonging. The object itself is rarely the whole story. Instead, it serves as a bridge to something much deeper and more meaningful in the child’s life.

This week, consider creating a small Museum of Important Things in your classroom. Invite children to bring a photograph, a drawing, an artifact, or simply share a story about something they treasure. Ask them why it is important, how it became special, and what they would like others to know about it. Record their exact words and display their stories alongside their contributions.

As you listen, pay attention to the theories children may be developing about family, friendship, identity, memory, love, and belonging. You may discover that what appears to be a simple stuffed animal is actually carrying a much larger story.

Before we focus on managing the object, we can begin by understanding its meaning. Children’s treasured objects are often invitations—opportunities to learn about their lives, understand what matters to them, and see the world through their eyes. Perhaps they are telling us, “This is part of my story.”

I’d love to hear from you.

• What is your program’s approach to loveys and treasured objects from home?

• Are they welcomed into the classroom, kept in cubbies, or used during transitions?

• More importantly, what have these objects taught you about the children who carry them?

Write back and tell me. I read every response, and your stories often inspire future Revisiting Journeys.

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f this post resonated with you, please share it with your colleagues, friends, and anyone who believes in listening deeply to children's stories.

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Every morning, when the children arrived at the program, they had to leave their "loveys" in a basket. These loveys gave children the strength and security they needed to survive the day away from their families. The basket overflowed every day. Tucked inside were treasures that might have looked ordinary to an adult—a worn corner of a blue blanket, a tiny stuffed dog missing one eye, a smooth gray stone, a faded pink ribbon, and a photograph softened by years of being held. The basket kept the loveys safe while children played, but it was available for children to retrieve them when needed.

Treasures with Stories

As the children gathered for the morning meeting, Sofia picked up her ribbon from the garden and brought it along. She held the ribbon tightly as she sat down. “My Nana gave me this, and I like to hold it.” Liam got up and headed to the basket. He retrieved his tiny stuffed dog and sat down again quietly. The gathering started, and the children engaged in conversations about feeling safe. Liam quietly whispered, “I feel safe when I hold Loopy (his tiny dog). Jelaila said, “My blankie reminds me of when I was a baby.”

Since this was early in the year, many of the children looked to their treasures for comfort to feel safe. Transitioning into a new space was not easy, and the educator worked hard to make them feel comfortable.

Creating the Museum of Important Things

During one of the daily gatherings, the conversation shifted to how some items had special meaning for people. Ava contributed to the discussion, “My rock has my grandma’s love inside it.” Sofia said, “Like my ribbon.”

Over the next several days, the conversation continued. The children brought more treasures from home. A button. A feather. A key without a lock. A tiny shell. A photograph of a baby brother.

Each object carried a story. Each story carried a feeling. The children then decided these treasures deserved a special place.

“Let’s make a museum,” Ellie suggested.

“A museum for our feeling things,” Ava added.

And so, the Museum of Important Things was born.

The children arranged their artifacts carefully on shelves and tables. Family members and the educators actively supported the children’s ideas. They carefully wrote down the children’s dictations:

“This is my blanket corner. It helps me remember home.”

“This stone came from the beach with my grandfather.”

“This dog is Loopy. He watches over me when I’m scared.”

Families stopped to visit. Children became guides, sharing stories behind their collections.

Children’s Theories About What Matters

As they revisited the museum day after day, new questions emerged.

Can an object hold love?

Can a toy be brave?

How do things become important?

Do important things stay important forever?

The children developed theories.

“Things become important because someone gives them to you.”

“No, because something special happens with them.”

“Maybe because they know your story.”

Looking Beyond the Object

As educators, we listened. What appeared to be a collection of objects was actually a collection of relationships. The children were not talking about things. They were talking about connection, memory, belonging, and identity. The blanket was comforting. The ribbon was love. The photograph was a remembrance. The stone was a bridge between past and present. Through their treasured artifacts, children were revealing how they made meaning of their lives.

The Hundred Languages of Treasured Possessions

The Museum of Important Things reminded us that children’s inquiries do not always begin with science experiments or grand investigations. Sometimes they begin with a worn ribbon, a beloved toy, or a smooth stone carried in a pocket.

When we pause to listen, these small treasures become windows into children’s theories about the world and their place within it. The objects children carry are not important in themselves. Perhaps they are important because of the stories they hold.

The Museum of Important Things reminds us that children’s inquiries do not always begin with science experiments or grand investigations. Sometimes they begin with a worn ribbon, a beloved toy, or a smooth stone carried in a pocket. What appeared to be a collection of objects was actually a collection of stories, relationships, and memories. The children were not focused on the physical characteristics of their treasures; they were exploring deeper questions about love, belonging, courage, and connection. Their theories revealed how children use objects to make sense of their experiences and communicate what matters most to them.

From a Reggio Emilia perspective, these treasured artifacts can be viewed as one of the hundred languages through which children express their thinking, feelings, and identities (Edwards, Gandini, & Forman, 2012). The blanket, ribbon, photograph, and stone became symbolic languages for communicating ideas that are often difficult to express through words alone. As children revisited their objects and shared their stories, they were constructing meaning, building theories, and making their thinking visible to others. The museum became more than a display of possessions; it became a space where children’s identities, memories, and relationships were honored as valuable sources of knowledge.

Beyond Transitional Objects

Donald W. Winnicott, a British pediatrician and psychoanalyst, introduced the concept of transitional objects—special items such as blankets, stuffed animals, or treasured possessions that help children navigate the emotional space between dependence on caregivers and growing independence (Winnicott, 1953). He suggested that a treasured blanket or toy helps a child bridge the space between dependence and independence. Yet the children in the Museum of Important Things pushed this idea even further. Their theories suggested that treasured objects do more than provide comfort—they carry stories, preserve memories, embody relationships, and help children remember who they are. Perhaps this is why a ribbon becomes love, a stone becomes a grandmother’s embrace, and a tiny stuffed dog becomes brave. The object itself is never the whole story. The meaning children attach to it is where the real inquiry begins.

Possessions as Part of the Self

Researcher Russell Belk’s (1988) theory of the extended self suggests that people often view meaningful possessions as extensions of who they are. Objects become important not because of their material value, but because they carry memories, relationships, experiences, and aspects of personal identity. The children’s theories in the Museum of Important Things reflected this understanding. Their blanket corners, ribbons, stones, and stuffed animals were not merely objects; they represented love, family, courage, and belonging. Through these treasured artifacts, children revealed that meaning resides not in the object itself but in the stories and relationships attached to it.

Objects often hold deep meaning for children, serving as powerful symbols of love, memory, comfort, identity, and belonging. What may appear to adults as an ordinary ribbon, blanket, stone, or stuffed animal can represent an important relationship, a cherished experience, or a connection to home. When children assign meaning to these treasured possessions, they are communicating something significant about their lives, their experiences, and their understanding of the world. By honoring and respecting these objects, we honor the stories, emotions, and relationships they carry.

Honoring Children’s Meaning-Making

The Museum of Important Things reminds us that children’s thinking is worthy of our attention. The children’s theories about their treasured possessions revealed sophisticated ideas about attachment, memory, courage, and connection. Their conversations demonstrated that children are not simply collecting objects; they are constructing meaning and making sense of their experiences. When educators listen closely and remain curious about the significance children attach to everyday items, we gain valuable insights into their identities, theories, and ways of knowing. This simple story reminds us that children’s ideas matter, their perspectives deserve to be heard, and their thinking offers a rich source of knowledge for all of us.

An Invitation to Educators

What possibilities might emerge if we invited children to bring meaningful objects from home into our programs—not as distractions to be put away, but as artifacts worthy of inquiry? How might our understanding of children’s identities, relationships, theories, and lived experiences deepen if we created spaces where these treasured possessions could be shared, revisited, and honored as valuable contributors to the learning community?

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“I am Maya, and I am a bunny too.”

Maya stood in the middle of the living room, her eyes bright with certainty as she shared her declaration.

Her father smiled.

“You are?”

Maya nodded and hopped twice across the floor.

“Yes. I am Maya ... and I am a bunny.”

Rather than correcting her, her mother leaned closer with curiosity.

“Tell me about being a bunny.”

“I hop fast,” Maya explained. “And bunnies listen with big ears.”

She paused for a moment before adding thoughtfully,

“But I am still Maya.”

For a few moments, her parents simply listened.

They did not explain the difference between imagination and reality. They did not rush to define what was true or possible. Instead, they stayed present with Maya’s thinking, allowing her ideas to unfold.

What might appear to adults as a simple moment of pretend play was something far more significant. Maya was exploring identity. She was testing the boundaries between who she knows herself to be and who she might become.

Observation – A Moment from a Learning Ecosystem

Maya wrapped her arms close to her chest and hopped across the room again.

“Watch me,” she said proudly. “I can hop like a bunny.”

“Do you feel like a bunny today?” her father asked.

“Yes,” Maya replied. “Because bunnies are soft and quiet.”

Then she gently touched her chest.

“And I am Maya too.”

Her mother smiled.

“So you can be both?”

Maya grinned.

“Yes. I can.”

The conversation continued without adults directing it toward a lesson or predetermined outcome. Instead, they offered thoughtful questions and genuine attention. In doing so, they created space for Maya to continue developing her own theories about identity, belonging, and possibility.

Beyond Pretending

When Maya says she is both herself and a bunny, she is doing more than pretending. She is exploring the possibility that multiple understandings can coexist.

She knows she is Maya. At the same time, she imagines herself through another identity.

This ability to hold more than one perspective reflects an emerging form of metacognition—the growing awareness of one’s own thoughts, experiences, and ways of knowing. Research suggests that young children demonstrate metacognitive awareness through dialogue, play, problem-solving, and self-reflective language long before they can formally explain their thinking (Geurten et al., 2024; Ozturk, 2024).

Erik Erikson’s work on identity development reminds us that children build a sense of self through opportunities for autonomy, initiative, and meaningful social interaction (Erikson, 1963). Imaginative experiences provide fertile ground for this work. Through play, children test ideas, explore possibilities, and construct understandings about themselves and their place in the world.

Maya’s declaration offers a glimpse into this process. She is exploring not only what a bunny is, but also what it means to be herself. Her words reveal a growing awareness that identity is both stable and flexible—that she can remain, Maya, while imagining another way of being.

Animal role-play creates a unique space for this exploration. By stepping into the perspective of another living being, children experiment with alternative ways of feeling, moving, relating, and existing within the world (Harris, 2000). This symbolic distance often allows children to express ideas, emotions, and possibilities that may be difficult to access directly.

A Bigger Idea Worth Considering

Children do not develop identity through instruction alone.

Identity emerges through lived experiences that allow children to narrate themselves into existence. When children are given opportunities to express their theories about who they are, they begin to construct deeper understandings of personhood. They discover that identity is not fixed but continually shaped through relationships, imagination, and experience.

Metacognition and identity are deeply connected. A child who can think about herself is also beginning to shape herself. These moments matter because they reveal that learning is not simply about acquiring information; it is about constructing meaning about one’s place in the world.

Anthropomorphism—the attribution of human characteristics, emotions, intentions, or behaviors to non-human beings—offers another lens for understanding Maya’s thinking (Epley et al., 2007). As she imagines herself as a bunny, she is not simply imitating an animal. She is connecting her own experiences to another form of life. Through this process, she explores movement, emotion, agency, and belonging.

Research suggests that animal-role play supports perspective-taking and identity flexibility, allowing children to move beyond their immediate perspective and imaginatively inhabit alternative ways of being (Harris, 2000). This capacity contributes to the development of empathy and social understanding as children learn to imagine others' experiences, feelings, and perspectives (Severson & Woodard, 2018).

Imagination itself plays a powerful role in this process. Fleer (2021) argues that imagination allows children to move beyond immediate reality and participate in increasingly complex forms of conceptual thinking. Through imagination, children do not escape reality; they expand it. They create possibilities, test theories, and construct new understandings about themselves and the world around them.

In this way, imaginative play is not separate from learning.

It is one of the ways children learn who they are.

A Thought to Carry Forward

Sometimes the smallest declarations reveal the largest becoming.

When Maya says, “I am Maya, and I am a bunny too,” she is not simply engaging in fantasy. She is exploring identity, perspective, and possibility. She is discovering that she can remain herself while simultaneously imagining another way of being.

These moments remind us that becoming unfolds through everyday acts of imagination, self-expression, and connection. Research on imagination, identity development, and metacognition suggests that these experiences are not peripheral to learning; they are central to how children construct a sense of self and make meaning of their lives (Erikson, 1963; Fleer, 2021; Geurten et al., 2024).

Children reveal their theories through play, language, movement, and story. When we slow down enough to listen, we discover that seemingly ordinary statements often carry extraordinary meaning.

“I am a bunny too” is more than imagination.

It is participation.

It is identification.

It is the child saying,

“I see myself here.”

And in that moment, we catch a glimpse of identity in the making.

A Note About the Research

The interpretation offered in this article is grounded in current research on identity development, metacognition, imagination, anthropomorphism, and pretend play. While no single theory can fully explain the complexity of children’s thinking, these perspectives provide valuable lenses for understanding how children construct meaning, explore possibilities, and develop a sense of self through play. For readers interested in exploring the scholarship that informed this reflection, a selection of references is included below.

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References

Epley, N., Waytz, A., & Cacioppo, J. T. (2007). On seeing human: A three-factor theory of anthropomorphism. Psychological Review, 114(4), 864–886. https://doi.org/10.1037/0033-295X.114.4.864

Erikson, E. H. (1963). Childhood and society (2nd ed.). W. W. Norton & Company.

Fleer, M. (2021). Conceptual playworlds: The role of imagination in play and learning. Early Years, 41(4), 353–364.

Geurten, M., De Pauw, S., & colleagues. (2024). The developmental path of metacognition from toddlerhood to early childhood. Developmental Psychology. Advance online publication.

Harris, P. L. (2000). Young children’s animal-role pretend. In K. L. Dautenhahn (Ed.), Pretending and imagination in animals and children (pp. 317–338). Cambridge University Press.

Ozturk, N. (2024). Metacognition in early childhood: Factors for development and practices of assessment. In Contemporary Issues in Early Childhood Education and Care.

Severson, R. L., & Woodard, S. R. (2018). Imagining others’ minds: Anthropomorphism is associated with children’s imaginative engagement and theory of mind. Frontiers in Psychology, 9, 2140. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2018.02140

The first sign that something significant was developing appeared in the corner of the yard beside the climbing logs. Isla, Theo, Naomi, and Luca had gathered stones and were arranging them into a large, precise circle. Some stones were stacked to create cairns that defied gravity. Others were carefully spaced apart. The patterns they created were intricate and shared a story of continuity. Once the circle was completed, Isla placed a long white feather in the center while Theo carried over a small wooden bowl filled with eucalyptus leaves. Nearby, Naomi dragged branches across the yard while Luca balanced a plank between two crates. Their movements were purposeful, fast, and deeply connected to one another. They worked quietly and in unison.

I quietly approached and waited to be invited. Theo looked up, noticing my presence. immediately. “It’s where the leaders meet when there’s danger.” We had a large storm recently, and the children witnessed the damage and needed to process the experience.

Naomi interrupted him. “Not leaders. Protectors.”

“And doctors can come too,” Isla added.

The children continued building without further explanation. Within minutes, the outdoor space transformed. The blue fabric near the fence became an ocean. Wooden rounds transformed into money. Pinecones became fuel for fires. Long sticks turned into fishing tools, protection devices, and bridge supports. The storytelling landscape was expanding rapidly as the children constructed an entire civilization from loose parts and collective imagination. In the process, they were doing the healing work they needed to process the fear they experienced during the storm.

What appeared at first to be pretend play quickly emerged as something far more sophisticated. The children were not simply acting out stories. They were building theories about how societies function. Through their play, they were negotiating systems of safety, fairness, leadership, responsibility, and care. Every material became part of a larger social structure. Every role carried expectations. Every decision required collective agreement.

They were building a new settlement after our conversation during the group gathering, where we shared the story of a community that gathers to search for safe land after a violent storm destroyed their village. Our morning gathering had ended hours earlier, but the children continued to talk about it. Now they were extending the narrative through materials, movement, and shared invention.

“We need stronger houses,” Luca announced while lifting another branch against a crate. His house had lost a few windows during the storm.

“And food to eat,” Naomi replied. “I don’t want to be hungry.” Naomi had heard her parents discuss storing food to prepare for another storm.

Theo pointed toward the stone circle with quiet certainty. “This is where we gather to talk,” he explained, echoing the collaborative traditions and community gatherings that were deeply woven into his family’s cultural life.

The children divided responsibilities naturally. Luca became focused on building structures. Naomi organized food collection and storage, gathering various loose parts they could use for cooking. Isla made signs with rules for entering spaces, while Theo spent long stretches of time reinforcing bridges and pathways between the houses they built. The children negotiated the rules as they collaborated to build their settlement.

As the settlement’s construction became more complex, the first major conflict emerged over resources. There were only three large baskets available in the yard, and multiple children wanted them to gather food (llose parts), carry materials to build, or bring tools that they thought they needed to protect themselves.

“I need this one for blankets when we sleep,” Luca insisted, pulling a basket closer to his shelter.

“But we need one for the food,” Naomi argued.

Theo crouched quietly beside them before holding up three flat stones in his hand.

“You can trade stones for baskets,” he said. He proceeded to hand out stones.

The group fell silent.

“How?” Isla asked.

“These stones are needed too,” Theo explained. “One stone means one basket.”

The logic was immediately accepted. No one questioned whether stones could become currency. Inside the storytelling landscape, value was determined collectively through shared meaning. Soon, the children created an entire economy. Flat stones were worth more than round stones. Pinecones could be exchanged for leaves. Long branches required “two traders.” Some materials became communal property while others remained protected by individual families or groups.

The negotiations became increasingly sophisticated as the play continued.

“You can’t take all the leaves,” Isla told Luca firmly. “Other people need roofs too.”

“But this cave is for emergencies,” Luca replied. “Everybody can come here if the storm comes.”

Naomi paused before nodding slowly. “Then it should be bigger if everybody uses it.”

The conversation was no longer about leaves or branches. The children were theorizing about collective responsibility and access to shared resources. They were constructing social systems through play.

By the second day, the stone circle had become the center of governance inside the children’s world. Isla guarded the entrance carefully.

“You have to ask permission before you come in,” she told another child who approached the space.

“Why?”

“Because this is where we talk.”

Throughout the morning, children gathered inside the circle to discuss conflicts and make decisions. They debated who could use the long planks. They argued about whether builders deserved larger shelters because they worked harder. They discussed where babies should sleep during storms and who should collect water from the blue fabric river.

At one point, a disagreement emerged about whether protectors should receive extra food.

“They keep everyone safe,” Theo explained.

“The food workers help everybody too,” Naomi argued. “If they stop working, everybody gets hungry.”

The discussion lasted nearly twenty minutes. The children remained fully inside the complexity of their theories about fairness and contribution.

The play continued for weeks. As their pretend world stabilized, rituals began to emerge naturally. Every morning started with what the children called “the fire gathering.” Children collected sticks and placed them carefully in the center of the stone circle before beginning work. Before entering shelters, children knocked softly on wooden crates. At lunchtime, the children covered their food baskets with fabric because “thieves might come while people are eating.” Each afternoon during the group gathering, the children shared stories about the day’s events.

“The bridge almost broke.”
“We found more medicine leaves.”
“The babies stayed safe.”
“We made a new rule about trading.”

The rituals gave continuity to the culture they were building together. Even children entering the play for the first time quickly learned the customs through observation and participation. The world held itself together through shared agreements.

One structure near the fence remained unfinished longer than all the others. Large branches leaned carefully against crates while soft fabric covered the roof.

“Who lives there?” I asked Naomi.

“Nobody,” she answered immediately.

“Then what is it for?”

“It’s where people go when they get hurt.”

The children had built a hospital. Inside, leaves became blankets. Small bowls became medicine containers. Pinecones became healing food. The structure represented far more than imaginative architecture. It revealed the children’s theories about care, vulnerability, and community responsibility.

Later that afternoon, Theo tripped while running near the climbing logs and began crying loudly. Before any adult intervened, Naomi and Isla guided him carefully toward the hospital.

“You stay here until your body don;t hurt,” Isla whispered.

Luca covered Theo’s legs with leaves while Naomi brought him a bowl of “medicine soup.”

The world the children created had made space for care systems because their theory of community required them.

On the third day, the storytelling landscape faced its greatest disruption. A younger child accidentally knocked down part of the bridge while running across the yard. The structure collapsed instantly.

“You ruined it!” Luca shouted.

The younger child burst into tears. Several children began arguing. Some demanded punishment while others abandoned the play entirely. For a moment, the entire world seemed close to collapse.

Then Isla quietly walked into the stone circle and sat down.

One by one, the other children followed her.

“We need to decide what happens,” Isla said calmly.

“He broke the bridge,” Luca insisted.

“It was an accident,” Naomi answered.

“But now nobody can cross.”

The group fell silent before Theo spoke softly from the edge of the circle.

“We rebuild things when storms break them too.”

The emotional atmosphere shifted immediately. Children gathered new branches. Others reinforced the supports with blocks. Naomi comforted the younger child while Luca rebuilt the bridge’s center.

The world repaired itself collectively.

After a few months, the storytelling landscape disappeared in physical form

But the theories remained.

For days, the children had investigated what fairness feels like, how communities organize themselves, how power shifts, how care systems emerge, how resources are distributed, and how trust is repaired after conflict. Through storytelling landscapes, the children made abstract theories visible. They built them with their hands, negotiated them with their voices, and revised them through shared experience.

What the Children Were Really Building

The children were not only building shelters, bridges, hospitals, and gathering places. They were building theories about how communities survive. Inside the storytelling landscape, they investigated safety, fairness, leadership, access, care, repair, and collective responsibility. Each loose part became a way to make thinking visible. Stones became currency. Leaves became medicine. Fabric became water. The stone circle became a place for decision-making. Through play, the children transformed the storm's fear into a shared world where they could practice protection, healing, and belonging.

William Corsaro’s lifelong study of early childhood peer activity helps illuminate the depth of this work. Through his theory of interpretive reproduction, Corsaro explains that children do not simply absorb the culture around them. Instead, children actively participate in creating and transforming culture through their shared peer experiences. As Corsaro writes, “children do not merely internalize society and culture; instead, they actively contribute to cultural production and change through their participation in a range of peer cultures” (Corsaro, 2012). In this storytelling landscape, the children were not copying the adult world. They were collectively reconstructing it, revising it, and building new social possibilities together through negotiation, ritual, conflict, and care.

Children as Active Participants in Culture

Children often use play to revisit powerful experiences and give them new meaning. When adults offer time, materials, and trust, children can move beyond retelling an event and begin theorizing about life itself. This is the heart of revisiting: children return to an idea, stretch it across materials and relationships, and deepen it through collaboration.

Research consistently shows that sociodramatic play supports children’s ability to negotiate roles, construct rules, communicate perspectives, and develop emotional understanding. During collaborative play, children learn to balance individual desires with collective needs. They revise rules, defend ideas, negotiate access, and repair relationships when conflict emerges. Their temporary worlds reveal lasting theories about how people care for one another, how communities organize themselves, and how justice and belonging are constructed together.

Supporting the Complexity of Children’s Thinking

Notice when children return to an experience through materials, movement, or repeated storylines. Instead of interrupting too quickly, observe what systems they are creating. Ask yourself:

• What are the children trying to understand?

• What roles, rules, rituals, or conflicts are emerging?

• How are the children negotiating fairness, access, or responsibility?

• What materials are helping them make their theories visible?

Research suggests that negotiation during play becomes more sophisticated when children have extended time, open-ended materials, and opportunities to solve problems collaboratively. Loose parts support this complexity because materials can shift meaning depending on the children’s evolving theories. A stone can become money, protection, or medicine, depending on the group’s collective agreement. Through these negotiations, children simultaneously practice perspective-taking, symbolic thinking, emotional regulation, and social reasoning.

Documentation helps educators move beyond seeing play as entertainment and instead recognize it as intellectual and social research. What appears to be pretend play is often children studying power, care, survival, identity, and repair in the most meaningful way they know how.

The shelters disappeared, but the children’s theories remained: community is something we build, negotiate, protect, break, and rebuild together.

Reference

Corsaro, W. A. (2012). Interpretive reproduction in children’s play. American Journal of Play, 4(4), 488–504. Retrieved from https://files.eric.ed.gov/fulltext/EJ985602.pdfAdd reference

A bridge, three children, and one quiet offer

It began with Andres. He had gathered three long wooden planks and placed them carefully across two crates. “This is mine,” he announced, stretching his arms wide as if to hold the structure together with his body. Lila approached slowly, carrying a basket of rings. She paused, watching. “Can I put these here?” she asked, lifting one ring toward the plank. Andres hesitated, his hand tightening on the wood. “No… I’m using it.” There was a long silence. Then Javier crouched beside them. “What if it’s a bridge?” he offered. “The rings can be the water.” Andres looked at the planks, then at the rings, then at Lila. He didn’t say yes, but he moved his hand. Lila placed one ring underneath. Javier added another. Soon, all three children were repositioning, adjusting, and negotiating without words. The structure shifted from his bridge to their idea, and something subtle, yet profound, emerged..

In the end, it’s not about the planks. It’s about what happens when an idea becomes too alive to belong to just one child.

What looks like “sharing” on the surface is something much deeper. When children collaborate, they are not simply learning to take turns or be kind. They are reorganizing their relationship to materials and to each other. As children negotiated and worked together, the ownership softened. The control loosened. The materials stop being extensions of the self and begin to act as invitations for collective thinking. Andres didn’t give up the planks because he was told to share. He let go because the idea became larger than his need to hold it.

This is the hidden thinking we often miss. When children are working alone, control can feel necessary. Holding onto materials can feel like holding onto the idea itself. Instead, in collaboration, ideas begin to live between children. They expand, shift, and require flexibility. The materials are no longer something to protect; they become something to think with together. A bridge that builds relationships.

What if sharing isn’t the goal — but the outcome?

This moment invites us to reconsider a familiar narrative. We often focus on teaching children to share materials, but what if the deeper work is creating conditions where sharing becomes unnecessary? In spaces where collaboration is alive, children don’t need constant reminders to take turns or give things up. The thinking itself invites participation. The materials circulate because the ideas demand movement. Collaboration doesn’t erase ownership; it transforms it from possession into participation.

So instead of asking, “How do we get children to share?” we might begin to ask:

• When a child holds tightly to a material, what idea might they be protecting — and what would help them feel safe enough to let it grow?

• What ideas are emerging in your space that are big enough to hold more than one child?

• How are materials offered — as objects to own, or as open possibilities that invite collective thinking?

• Where do you see children already scaffolding each other, and what happens when you slow down enough to see it?

• What would change if we thought about sharing not as a social skill to teach, but as what naturally happens when an idea becomes large enough to require more than one mind?

These are not strategies. They are lenses — ways of looking that change what becomes visible. When we shift from managing behavior to witnessing thinking, children’s conflicts over materials begin to look different. We start to see ideas that matter. We see children working out, in the only language available to them, some of the most fundamental questions of being human: What is mine? What is ours? Can my idea survive contact with yours?· · ·

Learning lives between children, not just within them

Research consistently shows that when children engage with unscripted materials such as loose parts, their interactions move beyond simple acts of sharing and toward the co-construction of ideas. In these moments, children are not merely exchanging materials; they are discussing possibilities, listening to one another, negotiating meaning, and building something collectively. Studies on loose parts play demonstrate that children engage in dialogue, revise their thinking in response to peers, and sustain shared exploration over time (Simoncini & Meeuwissen, 2024; Tay & Kaveri, 2025). These collaborative play environments also support relationship skills, communication, and language development, revealing that what appears to be social interaction is also deeply cognitive work (Cankaya et al., 2025). Similarly, interactive and unscripted construction tools such as Rigamajig have been shown to promote group interaction, leadership, and collective problem-solving, reinforcing that children naturally organize themselves around shared thinking when the materials allow for multiple possibilities (Holman, 2014).

This body of research aligns closely with Vygotsky’s (1978) sociocultural theory, which positions learning as fundamentally social. Vygotsky argued that knowledge is first constructed between people before it is internalized within the individual. In collaborative play, this becomes visible as children extend one another’s thinking, offer new perspectives, and co-create ideas that none could have produced alone. The Zone of Proximal Development is activated not through adult instruction, but through peer interaction, where children scaffold each other’s understanding in real time. Collaboration, in this sense, is not simply a social skill—it is the mechanism through which thinking develops.

Contemporary early childhood scholars extend this understanding through their work on materials and play. Daly and Beloglovsky (2015) emphasize that loose parts create conditions for inquiry, creativity, and shared exploration, allowing children to engage in open-ended investigations that naturally invite collaboration. Casey and Robertson (2016) similarly highlight that open-ended outdoor and loose parts play fosters teamwork, problem-solving, and communication, as children come together around shared purposes rather than individual ownership. These perspectives reinforce the idea that materials are not neutral; they shape the kinds of interactions children have and the ways in which ideas are formed and shared.

Ideas begin to live among children. The materials stop being something to protect and become something to think with together.

Conceptually, this invites a shift in how we understand children’s behavior. Children are not learning to “share objects”; they are learning to share thinking. The materials become a medium through which ideas move between children—expanding, evolving, and deepening through interaction. As ideas begin to live between children rather than within a single child, ownership softens, and participation becomes more fluid. What matters is no longer who controls the materials, but how children connect through them.

Empathy -

Where Thinking Together Becomes Feeling Together

Collaboration and empathy are deeply connected, and research continues to show that this relationship is not incidental but foundational to children’s development. When children engage in collaborative play—especially with open-ended materials—they are invited into shared experiences that require them to listen to others’ perspectives, respond to ideas, and participate in meaning-making together. Studies of peer play interactions demonstrate a direct relationship between collaborative engagement and the development of empathy, as children learn to interpret others’ intentions, negotiate roles, and remain attuned to their peers’ thinking (Futterer et al., 2023). In these moments, empathy is not taught as a separate skill; it emerges through being with others in shared exploration.

This connection is further supported by research on sensory and exploratory play, which shows that cognitive and emotional development are intertwined. When children manipulate materials, test ideas, and engage in open-ended investigation, they are simultaneously developing social and emotional competencies such as cooperation, emotional regulation, and relational awareness (Cankaya et al., 2025). Environments that emphasize belonging and shared engagement, rather than individual performance, contribute to children’s sense of connection and relational identity, reinforcing the idea that learning is both an intellectual and an emotional process (NAEYC, 2024). In these contexts, children are not only thinking, they are also feeling their way through relationships.

From a developmental psychology perspective, empathy develops through experiences of joint attention, shared goals, and negotiated meaning. These conditions require children to focus on the same idea, work toward a common purpose, and continuously adjust their understanding in response to others. These are precisely the conditions present in collaborative play. As children build together, solve problems, and revisit ideas, they must notice one another, adapt their actions, and hold multiple perspectives at once. This aligns closely with Vygotsky’s (1978) view that higher mental functions, including social understanding, originate in social interaction before becoming internalized.

Seen through this lens, empathy is not an isolated trait but a relational process that unfolds through participation. Collaboration requires children to be aware of others, to shift their thinking, and to remain open to multiple possibilities. It is in this ongoing negotiation, between ideas, materials, and people, that empathy becomes visible. What we are witnessing is not simply cooperation, but the development of the capacity to understand and be with others.

In the end, what we are witnessing is not children learning to share. Instead, they are learning how to think and be with one another.

Perhaps the work we are truly supporting is the emergence of connection. Beyond the materials, beyond the moment, children are discovering how ideas can grow in the presence of others. When an idea becomes too alive to belong to just one child, it expands into something shared, something relational, something deeply human.

References

Cankaya, O., et al. (2025). The relationship between children’s indoor loose parts play and cognitive development: A systematic review.
Futterer, J. N., et al. (2023). Associations between peer play interactions and empathy. Early Childhood Education Journal.
National Association for the Education of Young Children (NAEYC). (2024). Advancing equity and belonging in early childhood environments.
Vygotsky, L. S. (1978). Mind in Society: The Development of Higher Psychological Processes. Harvard University Press.

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When I walked into the classroom that morning, the room was already alive with movement. Amara stood at the easel, her hands moving quickly across the paper, layering color over color with a kind of urgency. Nearby, Mateo and Julian were building with wooden blocks, their structure rising and falling in uneven rhythms. On the rug, Lila and Soren were deep in conversation, arranging small figures into what looked like an unfolding story, their voices soft though intent. Across the room, Eli carried a basket of loose parts from one place to another, pausing briefly as if deciding where each object might belong, then changing his mind and starting again.

Everywhere I looked, something was happening. Children were building, painting, arranging materials, talking with one another, negotiating roles, repeating actions, and starting over again and again. The room held a steady hum of energy. It felt purposeful. It felt full. It felt, in many ways, like learning was everywhere. I found myself taking that in—feeling the movement, the flow, the engagement, the visible signs of activity. I felt reassured. This is what we hope to see, I thought. Children immersed. Children involved. It would have been easy to stop there.

Then Mateo’s tower collapsed. The sound was soft, though enough to shift the room’s rhythm for just a moment. Blocks are scattered across the floor. Julian stepped back. Mateo froze. For a second, I expected the familiar response, frustration, abandonment, a quick move to something new. Instead, Mateo crouched down slowly. He didn’t speak right away. He picked up one block, then another, turning them in his hands. His eyes moved between the pieces and the space where the tower had been. Julian leaned in again, watching, though not interfering. “Maybe it needs this one first,” Mateo said quietly, almost to himself. He placed a wider block at the base this time, then added another more carefully than before. The pace had changed. The energy had shifted. What had looked like a simple collapse was now something else entirely.

Across the room, Amara had stopped painting. Her brush hovered just above the paper as she tilted her head slightly, studying what she had already created. Without looking away, she dipped her brush into a darker color and traced a line slowly across the page. “This part is the night,” she said, not to anyone in particular. There was no rush in her movement now, no urgency, only a quiet decision being made visible.

Near the rug, Lila and Soren’s conversation had grown more focused. “No, he can’t go there,” Lila insisted, moving a small figure back. “He’s not ready yet.” Soren paused, then nodded. “He has to find it first.” Their story was not random. It was unfolding with its own internal logic, shaped by decisions, revisions, and shared understanding.

By the window, Eli had finally settled after moving around the room with a basket of materials. He placed his basket down and began taking each object out, one at a time. At first, he arranged them in a line. Then he paused, looked closely, and shifted them into a cluster. A few moments later, he spread them apart again, creating space between each piece. He held one object longer than the others, turning it slowly in his hands before deciding where it might belong. There were no words, no clear explanation, yet his attention remained steady. He seemed to be comparing, reconsidering, and testing relationships between the objects. Each change felt deliberate, even if the intention was not spoken. He was not simply moving materials; he was working through an idea, searching for a pattern that made sense to him.

Identifying the Thinking Beneath the Doing

Standing in the middle of the room, I realized how easy it would have been to miss all of this. At first glance, the classroom was simply busy; it was filled with activity, full of doing. And in many ways, it still was. Yet something else was happening beneath that movement, something quieter, more complex, and less immediately visible. Mateo was testing a theory about balance. Amara was constructing meaning through color and representation. Lila and Soren were negotiating narrative, sequence, and possibility. Eli was exploring relationships, order, and pattern through careful arrangement and rearrangement. None of it announced itself loudly. None of it asked for attention.

This is where I have learned to pause. What appears active is not always meaningful in the ways we intend, and what is deeply meaningful does not always present itself as activity at first glance. Busyness can create the impression that learning is happening everywhere, and at times it is. Yet the depth of that learning is not always visible in the movement alone. The distinction is subtle. It lives in the space between what children are doing and what they are thinking. It asks us to look a little longer, to listen more carefully, and to resist the urge to move too quickly past the moment.

Taking a Closer Look

Mateo remained with the blocks long after the initial collapse, his movements slowing and becoming more deliberate with each attempt. He began testing different base structures, sometimes widening the foundation, other times stacking more narrowly, watching closely to see what would hold and what would fail. Each collapse no longer felt like an ending. Instead, it was part of a sequence, information he seemed to carry forward into the next attempt. Julian occasionally handed him a block or mirrored his actions, but Mateo led the direction, quietly refining his approach. What emerged was not just a taller tower, but a growing understanding of balance, weight, and stability, an evolving theory shaped through repetition, observation, and adjustment.

Across the room, Amara continued to build her painting with equal intention, though her process unfolded in a different language. She layered colors, paused, stepped back, and returned again, each decision altering the meaning of the image she was constructing. When she named a section “the night,” it seemed to guide what came next: darker tones, slower strokes, more space between marks.

Nearby, Lila and Soren’s story deepened as they negotiated what each character could or could not do, revising the sequence of events to make sense within their shared narrative.

Eli stayed close to the window, returning again and again to the small collection of objects he had gathered. At first, his movements seemed uncertain—placing items in a line, then shifting them apart, then grouping them together again. But over time, a pattern began to emerge. He would pause before each change, looking closely, as if comparing one arrangement to another. Occasionally, he held an object in his hand longer than the others, turning it slightly before deciding where it belonged. There was no verbal explanation, no clear endpoint, yet his persistence suggested intention. Eli was not simply moving materials; he was working through an idea—exploring relationships, order, and placement in a way that made sense to him, even if it remained unspoken.

What began as a morning filled with movement slowly revealed something more expansive. Something that extends beyond a single classroom or a single moment.

When we look closely, play is not simply a break from learning or a way to keep children engaged. It is a form of intelligence. In their play, children construct theories, test ideas, revise their understanding, and make decisions based on what they observe and experience. Mateo’s repeated attempts to stabilize his structure, Amara’s careful layering of color and meaning, Lila and Soren’s evolving narrative, and Eli’s quiet search for order all reflect a kind of thinking that is active, intentional, and deeply complex. Play, in this sense, is not random. It is a disciplined, self-directed process through which children come to understand the world.

Seen through this lens, children are not simply participants in activities; they are researchers. They ask questions, though not always in words. They form hypotheses, test possibilities, and refine their ideas over time. Their work is iterative, often nonlinear, and guided by curiosity rather than predetermined outcomes. What we witness in these moments are not isolated actions, but investigations in progress. Each child is engaged in a line of inquiry, shaped by their own experiences, interests, and ways of thinking.

And within this process, the environment itself plays a significant role. The materials, the space, the arrangement of objects, and the time allowed for exploration all contribute to what becomes possible. The environment is not neutral. It offers invitations, constraints, and opportunities that influence how children engage and what they can explore. When thoughtfully designed, it becomes a kind of co-teacher, supporting, extending, and sometimes even challenging children’s thinking without constant adult direction.

Understanding play in this way requires a shift. It asks us to move beyond seeing activity as the goal, and instead to recognize the intelligence embedded within it. It asks us to take children’s thinking seriously. To see their actions not as simple or fleeting, but as part of a larger process of meaning-making. And it asks us to consider how we, alongside the environment, can create the conditions where this kind of thinking can continue to grow.

Recognizing the intelligence of play invites us to reconsider how the entire play ecosystem is designed to engage children’s thinking. Children actively construct knowledge, testing and adapting their understanding of the world through direct experiences. In this research process, they are constantly operating at the edge of their capabilities, building and expanding both their knowledge and their confidence in what they can do. Lev Vygotsky described this space as the zone of proximal development, where children stretch beyond what they can do independently and move into more complex thinking through interaction, imagination, and social exchange.

From this perspective, the focus begins to shift. Attention moves beyond what children are capable of and toward how the ecosystem actively shapes that capability. In what ways does the ecosystem support children in working at the edge of their thinking, and in what ways might it constrain that process? Does it open space for curiosity to unfold, or does it steer children toward predetermined outcomes? Does it expand possibilities, or quietly narrow them?

An ecosystem designed to enhance children’s agency does more than provide materials; it creates conditions where children can make meaningful decisions. Unscripted materials, flexible spaces, relationships, and time that is not overly segmented allow children to follow their ideas, revisit problems, and stay with uncertainty. In such ecosystems, curiosity is not something adults try to spark; it is sustained because children are given room to pursue their questions. The ecosystem becomes responsive rather than prescriptive, offering invitations instead of instructions.

At the same time, the ecosystem holds the potential to communicate expansive possibilities. When materials are unscripted and abundant, time is generous, and interactions are thoughtfully attuned, children are invited into deeper forms of thinking. Their role remains that of researcher—actively investigating, questioning, and shaping their own learning pathways. An intentionally designed ecosystem, acting as a co-teacher, supports children in taking intellectual risks. It encourages them to test ideas, to revisit and refine their thinking, and to remain engaged in that productive space of not yet knowing, where curiosity continues to grow.

This raises an essential consideration: how do we design ecosystems that not only reflect children’s capabilities, but also actively expand them? How do we ensure that the space, materials, relationships, and rhythms of the day are aligned with the understanding that children are capable thinkers, capable of sustained inquiry? When we begin to ask these questions, the ecosystem is no longer a backdrop to learning—it becomes an active participant in cultivating agency, curiosity, and the ongoing development of children’s thinking.

Supporting the Intelligence of Play

To bring these ideas into practice, educators can begin with a simple, intentional shift in perspective, one that moves away from planning activities and toward designing for thinking. Rather than asking what children will do, the more generative question becomes: What is the thinking I want to make possible here? This question repositions the role of the educator. It invites a deeper awareness of how the ecosystem, materials, time, and adult presence can support children in exploring ideas, testing theories, and constructing meaning.

Materials, in this context, are not just resources; they are invitations. When materials are dynamic and flexible, they allow children to engage with them through their own questions and interpretations. A collection of unscripted materials, natural elements, or varied textures offers multiple possibilities rather than a single outcome. Children can compare, combine, rearrange, and transform these materials in ways that reflect their thinking. For example, a group of children working with stones, sticks, and small wooden pieces may begin by simply arranging them, then gradually shift into building structures, testing stability, and negotiating placement. In another moment, children using translucent materials on a light table may explore layering, noticing how colors change and overlap, leading them to form ideas about light, shadow, and transformation. The value lies not in what is made, though, in what is explored along the way.

Time also becomes a critical condition for thinking. When children are given uninterrupted stretches of time, they can remain with an idea long enough to develop it. Repetition, pauses, and returns to the same experience are often signs that thinking is deepening. These moments are easily overlooked when the day is segmented or rushed. When time is protected, children can follow their ideas, revisit questions, and refine their understanding without being pulled away too quickly. For instance, a child returning to the block area over several days may gradually refine their approach to building, remembering what worked and adjusting what did not. In another case, a child repeatedly drawing the same form may be working through representation, each iteration bringing new detail, clarity, and intention. In both examples, time allows the thinking to evolve rather than remain surface-level.

The role of the adult shifts as well. Instead of directing or leading, the educator becomes an interpreter of children’s thinking. This requires careful observation and a willingness to remain present without immediately intervening. By paying attention to what children are trying to figure out, educators can respond in ways that extend rather than close the experience. For example, when a child is struggling to balance materials, an educator might place a wider-base piece nearby without instruction, allowing the child to reconsider their approach. In another moment, when children are deeply engaged in storytelling, an educator might ask, “What do you think happens next?” A question that invites further development rather than providing an answer. These responses keep the thinking in motion while honoring the child’s direction.

When these elements come together, materials that invite, time that allows, and adults who interpret, play takes on a different quality. It becomes a space where children can develop ideas, test possibilities, and construct understanding through their own investigations. Designing for intelligent play does not require adding more to the day. It calls for a shift in attention—from managing what is visible to engaging with what is emerging. In that shift, the ecosystem becomes aligned with the depth of thinking children are already capable of, offering them the conditions to explore it more fully.

In that shift, the ecosystem becomes aligned with the depth of thinking children are already capable of, offering them the conditions to explore it more fully.

And when we begin to design for thinking in this way, we are no longer asking how to keep children engaged; we are choosing to take their intelligence seriously.

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This past week, I experienced a moment of history when I attended a "puppet" show with my family. At first, I did not know what to expect. I knew it was in an old theatre that had been open for over thirty-five years in the same location. As we entered the small space, the first thing I noticed was the old marionettes hanging on hooks along the wall and a small wooden stage. Velvet curtains, slightly worn. Strings are visible if you look closely enough. And yet, nothing about the experience felt small. Children and families sat on low benches and on the floor, their bodies leaning forward, voices buzzing with excitement. There was a shared sense of anticipation as the puppeteer stepped on stage to announce the story they were about to perform. It was a recreation of the 1938–1939 Broadway production of Pinocchio, produced by the Federal Theatre Project (WPA) and written/directed by Yasha Frank. The story was a popular Depression-era adaptation. featuring a gentle and caring Gepetto, a young Pinocchio, the Cat, the Fox, and the Blue Fairy. Knowing the history of what we were about to see, invited myself to research the true story of Pinocchio. (https://www.smithsonianmag.com/travel/the-real-pinocchio-180980027/)

The Story Begins

The curtain opened, and Geppetto the marionette came on stage, singing happily as he built.

His movements were slow, deliberate, almost rhythmic. Each gesture—lifting a tool, sanding a piece of wood, pausing to admire his work—felt intentional, even amplified by its simplicity. The melody of his voice filled the small theater, not loudly, but warmly, as if it were meant for each child individually. There was no rush to begin the "real" story. This was the story.

The children leaned in.

Some swayed gently to the song's rhythm, their bodies attuned to its cadence. Others watched with focused intensity, carefully tracking each movement of Geppetto's hands as he worked. A few began to whisper their own theories: "He's making something…" "Is it a toy?" "What is he building?" Their words hovered in the space—not interrupting, but layering meaning onto what they were seeing. These were not idle comments. They were evidence of thinking in motion.

Geppetto paused often.

In those pauses, something important happened. He looked outward, as if noticing the children, as if inviting them into his process. The pacing created space for anticipation, for interpretation, for children to insert themselves into the unfolding act. They were not waiting passively for something exciting to happen. They were already inside the experience, following the sequence, predicting what might come next, and laughing with each intentional movement and moment of humor.

When Children Enter the Story

As the wooden figure began to take shape, a murmur moved through the room. Recognition did not arrive all at once; it traveled from child to child like a quiet ripple. Bodies shifted forward. Eyes widened. Some children pointed, while others simply stared, holding onto the moment.

They were witnessing not just a character, but a friend.

In that moment, the story did not begin with action or conflict. It began with care, with making, with time. Both children and adults stayed with it—not because it was fast or flashy, but because it invited them to notice, to wonder, and to participate in the unfolding transformation.

This was attention rooted in relationships.

Not captured, instead they are formed.

For the adults, it became a walk down memory lane—a return to a time when going to the theatre meant cherishing moments of artistry and creativity.

Almost immediately, the room shifted again.

A collective gasp. A ripple of laughter. A chorus of voices rising and falling in response to what was unfolding on stage.

The children, mostly between two and five years old, did not sit quietly observing.

They entered the story.

When Pinocchio appeared, a child near the front called out, "That's him!" as if greeting someone familiar. Another child warned him, "Be careful!" when he wandered too close to trouble. Small bodies leaned forward, hands reaching toward the stage—not to touch, but to connect.

There was no separation between the audience and the character.

When Pinocchio told a lie, a wave of voices responded instantly: "Noooo!" followed by laughter and concern. One child covered their eyes, peeking through their fingers, while another stood up, unable to contain the urgency of what they needed to say: "Don't do that!"

Fear, Wonder, and Meaning-Making in Real Time

And then came a moment that lingered.

As the ocean scene unfolded, the room held its breath. Children gasped as the deep blue waters came alive. Shimmering fish glided across the stage, and my granddaughter, with excitement and certainty, pointed and said, "Octopus," naming and interpreting what she saw in real time. Nearby, a young child's voice cut through the moment: "Daddy, I am scared." The fear was real—spoken aloud and held within the safety of the shared experience.

And then, relief.

Pinocchio and Geppetto were saved, and the children clapped. Hands came together in spontaneous applause, not prompted, but deeply felt. Some children smiled broadly, while others leaned back into their caregivers, their bodies releasing the tension they had been holding.

At First Glance… But Something Else Was Happening

The room softened.

Children smiled. Some looked at one another. Others looked back at Pinocchio, as if recalibrating the story through what they had just experienced together.

This was not a performance being delivered.

It was a relationship unfolding.

Throughout the show, the children's responses shaped the rhythm of the experience. Laughter came in waves—sometimes early, sometimes delayed—as each child processed in their own time. Questions were asked out loud. Predictions were offered freely. Warnings, advice, and encouragement flowed without restraint.

"Run!"
"Hide!"
"Why did he do that?"
"He's going to get in trouble…"

The children were not interrupting the story.

They were building it.

At first glance, this might look like simple excitement—a charming group of children calling out to a puppet.

But something else was happening.

Revealing the Thinking Beneath the Moment

The children were doing the intellectual work of storytelling.

What might have appeared, at first glance, as spontaneous reactions were, in fact, layered acts of thinking. The children were reading emotional cues, anticipating what might happen next, assigning intention to the characters, and testing their theories out loud. When they warned Pinocchio, they were not simply reacting—they were engaging in moral reasoning, drawing from their own sense of right and wrong. When one child said, "Daddy, I am scared," they were doing more than expressing fear; they were naming an internal state and locating safety within a trusted relationship. When my granddaughter confidently declared, "Octopus," she was interpreting what she saw, comparing it to her existing knowledge, and organizing her understanding of the world in real time.

These moments reveal something deeper.

The children were not sitting back, passively absorbing the experience. They were actively constructing meaning. They were making connections, forming hypotheses, revising their ideas, and sharing their thinking within a social context. Their voices, gestures, and emotional responses were all part of an ongoing investigation into the story as it unfolded.

They were not passively entertained.

They were investigating, thinking, and making sense of the world together.

When My Assumptions About Digital Media Were Challenged

This is where my own thinking was disrupted.

For years, I have held concerns, grounded in both experience and research, about the impact of digital media on children's attention spans. Fast-paced imagery, constant stimulation, immediate gratification. I wondered: Have children lost the capacity to attend deeply?

And yet, in that small theater, those assumptions were challenged.

These children were not distracted.

They were sustained, deeply, emotionally, and intellectually engaged.

Research offers insight into this shift. Puppetry has been shown to increase children's attention, motivation, and verbal expression. It supports language development and social-emotional growth by inviting children into dialogue rather than positioning them as passive viewers. Puppets exist in a unique "in-between" space—both real and imagined—which allows children to project ideas, test theories, and communicate more freely.

Perhaps attention has not diminished.

Perhaps it is waiting for the right conditions.

The Real Question: What Invites Children's Attention?

So the question becomes: How can a marionette show hold the attention of children growing up in a world of digital media and cartoon characters?

Research helps us reconsider what we mean by attention. Studies suggest that fast-paced, highly stimulating digital content can shape shorter attention patterns, particularly when children are repeatedly exposed to rapid scene changes and immediate rewards (Christakis et al., 2004; Lillard & Peterson, 2011). Digital media often captures attention from the outside through speed, intensity, and constant sensory input. It keeps children watching, but not always thinking. The experience is largely complete before the child even enters it. The marionette show did something fundamentally different. It invited attention from the inside.

This approach echoes the quiet, intentional wisdom of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. Fred Rogers understood that children do not need to be rushed into engagement—they need time. His pacing—slow, deliberate, and predictable—was not accidental. It was responsive. He left space between words and actions, allowing children to process, to wonder, and to feel. He trusted that children's attention would follow meaning, not spectacle. Research has since affirmed that this kind of contingent, socially attuned interaction supports deeper engagement and learning (Kuhl, 2007). The marionette show carried that same sensibility.

The pacing allowed children time to think, to anticipate, and to stay with the unfolding story. The visible strings did not break the illusion; instead, they sparked curiosity—how does this work? Who is behind it? Could I do this too? The slight imperfections—the pauses, the subtle shifts, the human timing—created space for interpretation, for children to construct meaning rather than receive it fully formed.

Like Mr. Rogers, the puppeteer was not performing for the children, but with them. The rhythm of the show adjusted in response to their laughter, their questions, and their moments of hesitation. When children called out, the story did not move forward as if they were interruptions—it absorbed their voices. This responsiveness reflects what developmental research describes as "serve and return" interaction—an essential process in building attention, language, and social understanding (Center on the Developing Child, Harvard University, 2016). The live interaction mattered most.

Children are more likely to sustain attention and engage cognitively when interactions are contingent, when their responses influence what happens next (Kuhl, 2007). In the marionette show, the story was responsive. It shifted with the children's voices, their emotions, and their ideas.

In this space, attention was not demanded; it was constructed. Children were not simply consuming the experience; they were actively co-constructing it, shaping the story through their ideas, responses, and relationships.

Why Marionettes Still Matter

At the end of the show, the puppeteer brought Pinocchio to meet the children. My granddaughter, with quiet confidence, shared, "It's my birthday too."

There was no hesitation in her voice. No question about whether she would be heard.

And in that small but powerful exchange, something extraordinary happened—the puppeteer paused, Pinocchio turned, and the story made space for her.

The story was not just on the stage; it was in the room. And perhaps that is why the marionette still matters, not as a nostalgic artifact from the past, but as a reminder that children's thinking comes alive in relationship, in participation, and in spaces where imagination is invited, not replaced.

Despite the dark parts of the story, the children were drawn to the kindness that the marionettes showed each other. My granddaughter connected to Pinocchio as they shared a birthday. We all learned that love and empathy can bring people together.

The small theatre, Puppetworks, Inc., will be closing soon, since they are losing their lease. I stay hopeful that they will find another space to continue this valuable work. I encourage you to offer your support and reach out to see how you can help keep their doors open.

References

Center on the Developing Child at Harvard University. (2016). Serve-and-return interactions shape brain architecture.
Christakis, D. A., Zimmerman, F. J., DiGiuseppe, D. L., & McCarty, C. A. (2004). Early television exposure and subsequent attentional problems in children. Pediatrics, 113(4), 708–713.
Kuhl, P. K. (2007). Is speech learning 'gated' by the social brain? Developmental Science, 10(1), 110–120.
Lillard, A. S., & Peterson, J. (2011). The immediate impact of different types of television on young children's executive function. Pediatrics, 128(4), 644–649.
Vygotsky, L. S. (1978). Mind in society: The development of higher psychological processes. Harvard University Press.

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Maya dragged a small wooden chair across the classroom, the legs scraping loudly against the floor, before she positioned it just beneath a shelf. She climbed up, carefully tucking her body into the narrow space, pressing her back firmly against the wall, and pulling her knees in close. She stayed there, contained on three sides, her body held by the boundaries she had created.

Nearby, a group of children gathered around a table, their voices growing louder as more bodies squeezed in, elbows touching, markers rolling to the floor as paper overlapped paper. At the light table, Liam leaned in, his face inches from the glowing surface, stacking translucent shapes and watching the colors merge. At the same time, Sofia stood back, shielding her eyes before slowly drifting toward a quieter corner. Across the room, Mateo lay on his stomach, pushing a car back and forth along the same line in the carpet, again and again, pausing only to press his hands firmly into the floor before continuing.

In the block area, Noah moved a basket of loose parts from one corner to another, pausing each time to press the objects tightly against his chest before releasing them into a new arrangement. Beside him, Aria carefully stacked wooden blocks into a tall tower, holding her breath each time she added another piece. At the same time, Ben knocked his structure down and immediately began rebuilding, faster this time. Near the windows, Ava and Julian negotiated space at a table flooded with light—Ava squinting and turning away, Julian leaning in, captivated by the brightness as he traced shadows with his fingers. Thoughtful sensory design can make spaces more inclusive and meaningful for all children.

At the easel, Chloe dipped her brush into thick paint, watching it drip slowly before dragging it across the paper in long, deliberate strokes. At the sensory table, Elia sifted soft sand through her fingers, letting it fall in a steady stream, then burying her hands deep beneath the surface before lifting them out again. On the rug, Lucas and Emma wrapped themselves in dramatic play, stirring invisible soup and calling out orders, their voices rising and falling in rhythm with their play. Nearby, Daniel moved between spaces, pausing briefly at each—touching, watching, picking up, and putting down—before continuing on. Moving beyond isolated activities toward holistic ecosystems can inspire more dynamic and engaging learning environments.

What We Might Be Missing: Children’s Hidden Thinking

The ecosystem is alive and full of energy, negotiation, repetition, construction, and imagination—an ordinary preschool morning. Yet within this familiar rhythm, each child is communicating through their sensory responses. They are telling us how this ecosystem feels in their body, revealing their internal states without words, through reactions to light, sound, texture, movement, and proximity, which helps us understand their needs better.

They are forming theories about the environment—where they belong, how spaces work, what supports their bodies, and what disrupts their flow-through sensory exploration that fosters cognitive and emotional growth.

Maya is not just relocating furniture. She is studying space and boundary. She is exploring where her body feels held and how she can create a place that contains her. In that small, constructed nook, she is designing an environment that supports her need for containment.

Liam is not simply exploring light. He is investigating transformation. He is noticing how light changes color, transparency, and visibility. He is exploring what happens when light passes through materials and how it alters what he sees.

Sofia is not disengaging. She is interpreting intensity. She is recognizing the threshold between comfort and discomfort and adjusting her position in response. She is finding a way to remain connected while protecting her visual comfort.

Mateo is not stuck. He is building rhythm and predictability. Through repetition, he is mapping movement and pressure, organizing his body in relation to the floor and the path he creates. He is creating consistency in a dynamic environment.

Noah is not wandering. He is investigating weight, resistance, and distribution. As he carries, presses, and releases objects, he is gathering information about force and control. He is exploring how his body interacts with materials.

Ava is not avoiding the table. She is negotiating visual input. She is identifying how light affects her ability to see, focus, and remain present. She is adjusting her position so she can participate more comfortably.

Julian is not just fascinated. He is immersed in sensory inquiry. He is closely observing the qualities of light—its brightness, its shadows, and its effects. He is exploring how light shapes his experience.

Elia is not withdrawing. She is creating rhythm and containment through texture. As sand moves through her fingers, she regulates her body and builds a steady, predictable sensory experience. She is exploring the feeling of flow and continuity.

When we look closely, these actions are not isolated moments but ongoing exploration. What we often label as preference or personality begins to reveal itself as something much deeper. It becomes a sensory conversation between children and their environment, in which thinking, theory-building, and meaning-making unfold continuously.

Designing sensory environments with intentionality is essential, as it guides educators and designers in creating spaces that support diverse sensory needs and foster inclusive learning experiences. Environmental psychology demonstrates that sensory conditions—such as lighting, acoustics, spatial density, color, and material textures—directly influence children’s attention, stress levels, behavior, and participation (Evans, 2006). In a typical preschool classroom, where sound, movement, and visual input are constantly shifting, young children are especially sensitive to these environmental stimuli. Excessive noise, glare, visual clutter, or crowding can increase cognitive load and lead to dysregulation. At the same time, environments designed with balanced light, manageable sound levels, and thoughtful material choices can support comfort, focus, and emotional regulation. Research in neuroinclusive and universal design further extends this understanding by emphasizing the importance of sensory-responsive ecosystems that support children across the neurodiversity spectrum. Features such as predictable layouts, adjustable lighting, acoustic moderation, tactile variation, and access to retreat spaces reduce barriers to participation and create more equitable access for children with diversabilities (Rajotte et al., 2025). Rather than retrofitting accommodations after challenges arise, neuroinclusive design anticipates variability from the outset, recognizing that children interpret their feelings, adapt to their surroundings, and actively design their own ways of being within the ecosystem. This invites us to consider more deeply: how thoughtfully are we designing sensory experiences that honor different processing needs, ensuring that all children can engage comfortably, confidently, and meaningfully?

A Practical Lens: Seeing the Ecosystem Differently

When we pause long enough to truly observe, the classroom begins to reveal itself in new ways. What once felt like routine movement and familiar activity starts to unfold as a complex landscape of sensory experiences—subtle, dynamic, and deeply influential. Children are not simply moving through the environment; they are responding to it, shaping it, and making decisions within it. When we shift our attention from what children are doing to how they experience the ecosystem, new questions surface—ones that invite us to see beyond isolated activities and toward the interconnected nature of space, sensation, and participation.

What shifts when we begin to see sensory experiences as living across the entire ecosystem rather than in a single designated space?

What might children be telling you through where they choose to sit, move, gather, or retreat?

Where do they return to, again and again—and what does that place offer their body?

Where do they hesitate, avoid, or move quickly through?

What happens when we look beyond the sensory table and begin to notice the sensory qualities of everything—the hum of the room, the sharpness or softness of light, the density of bodies at a table, the textures of materials, the openness or tightness of space?

How are these elements shaping children’s participation, their focus, their relationships, and their sense of belonging?

What would it mean to design not just an activity, but an ecosystem that anticipates different sensory processing needs from the start and intentionally integrates the sensory systems within the design process? In lived experience, children do not encounter touch, movement, or body awareness in isolation. When the tactile, vestibular, and proprioceptive systems interact, they function together as the somatosensory system—a unified system that processes touch, pressure, pain, vibration, body position, and movement through input from the skin, muscles, joints, and fascia. Designing with these systems combined more accurately reflects how children experience and navigate their environments.

How thoughtfully do you design sensory experiences that honor different processing needs, ensuring children with disabilities can engage comfortably, confidently, and meaningfully?

And how might children’s experiences change if sensory support were not something we add, but something we embed—throughout the walls, the floors, the materials, the rhythms, and the spaces in between?

Inclusive early childhood ecosystems prioritize sensory experience as a foundational design consideration. This means looking beyond isolated materials or designated areas to examine how every element of the environment works together. An empathetic design approach considers how children approach, interpret, and move through space, intentionally integrating sensory systems to create inclusive, supportive, and healing ecosystems. When sensory systems are combined in the design phase, we move beyond accommodation toward environments that actively support well-being, belonging, and participation for all children.

Designing Sensory-Responsive Ecosystems: The Three Spaces

To understand how sensory-responsive ecosystems truly function, it is helpful to consider the environment across three interconnected dimensions: physical, temporal, and pedagogical space. These spaces do not exist separately; they work together to shape how children experience, interpret, and engage with the world around them. The physical space reflects what children see, touch, and move through. The temporal space holds how time, rhythm, and transitions are experienced. The pedagogical space reveals how educators design invitations, interactions, and learning experiences. When these three spaces are intentionally aligned, the ecosystem becomes more coherent, responsive, and supportive, honoring the full complexity of children’s sensory experiences.

Across the Three Spaces:

To understand how sensory-responsive ecosystems function, it is helpful to consider the environment across the three interconnected dimensions: physical, temporal, and pedagogical space. These spaces do not exist separately; they work together to shape how children experience, interpret, and engage with the world around them.

The physical space reflects what children see, touch, and move through. The temporal space holds how time, rhythm, and transitions are experienced. The pedagogical space reveals how educators design invitations, interactions, and learning experiences. When these three spaces are intentionally aligned, the ecosystem becomes more coherent, responsive, and supportive—honoring the full complexity of children’s sensory experiences.

Physical Space: How Design Shapes Sensory Experience and Access

A sensory-responsive classroom makes visual and sensory information easier to navigate. Natural light is softened with sheer coverings to reduce glare, while artificial lighting is adjustable to prevent harsh contrasts. Materials are arranged intentionally, loose parts are curated, shelves are uncluttered, and defined borders separate spaces. A light table is positioned at multiple heights so children can approach it standing, sitting, or from a wheelchair. Pathways are clear and predictable, allowing children to move with confidence. High-contrast materials, such as dark trays with light objects and bold outlines around workspaces, will help children better distinguish where materials begin and end, reducing visual confusion and supporting independence.

Temporal Space: Creating Predictable Visual Rhythms

Consistency becomes a form of sensory support. Materials remain in familiar locations, allowing children to build memory and orientation over time. Transitions are not abrupt; instead, changes in lighting, displays, or materials happen gradually. For example, dimming lights before rest time or slowly introducing new materials alongside familiar ones helps children adjust without overwhelm. Visual routines, such as the consistent placement of provocations or predictable sequences throughout the day, offer a rhythm that children can rely on. Time is also expanded. Children are given space to look, revisit, and process visual information at their own pace, rather than being rushed from one experience to another.

Pedagogical Space: Planning for Sight and Vision Support

Teaching and learning experiences intentionally engage visual thinking. Invitations might include shadow play on a wall, magnifiers placed near natural objects, or projection tools that transform familiar materials into new visual experiences. Art materials are presented in organized, uncluttered ways, brushes sorted, paints grouped, and tools accessible, so children can make independent choices. High-contrast drawing surfaces, translucent materials, and layered media support children in tracking, focusing, and exploring spatial relationships. These are not simply activities; they are opportunities for children to observe closely, compare, interpret, and build meaning through what they see.

Across all three spaces, the ecosystem begins to function as a cohesive whole in which light, material, time, and teaching are intentionally aligned. In this kind of environment, children are not working to manage sensory overload or confusion. Instead, they are supported in navigating, understanding, and engaging with the world around them—comfortably, confidently, and meaningfully.

Moving Beyond the Sensory Table

Designing sensory-responsive ecosystems is complex, nuanced work. It requires us to move beyond checklists and isolated interventions and instead engage in a continuous process of observing, listening, and refining. When sensory experiences are reduced to a single table or activity, we risk overlooking how deeply they shape every moment of a child’s day. But when we begin to see the ecosystem as sensory—when light, sound, movement, materials, and space are all intentionally designed—we create environments that do more than accommodate. They respond, they support, and they sustain children’s thinking, well-being, and participation.

Children are not just experiencing the play-inspired learning ecosystem. They are revealing how it is designed.

References:

Evans, G. W. (2006). Child development and the physical environment. Annual Review of Psychology, 57, 423–451. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev.psych.57.102904.190057

Rajotte, T., et al. (2025). Neuroinclusive design in early childhood environments: Supporting diverse sensory processing needs.

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I will start by admitting that worms scare me. They remind me too much of snakes. It takes a great deal of self-control for me not to stop children from touching them. I have to consciously hold myself back from saying, “Let’s leave the worm alone.”

This is the story of the moment when I realized that children are theorists.

It started with a worm.

After a night of rain, three children gathered around the garden bed on the playground. The soil was dark and wet, and a small worm was slowly making its way across the surface.

Mateo crouched down first. He leaned close to the ground and watched the worm stretch and curl as it moved.

“Worms come out when it rains because they need fresh air,” he said thoughtfully.

Ava shook her head immediately.

“No,” she replied confidently. “They come out because the water makes mud and they can’t stay in it.”

Lila leaned even closer, studying the ground carefully.

“I think the rain pushes them up,” she added. “The water fills the dirt and they have to come out.”

In that moment, there were three children, three explanations, and three different ways of making sense of the same event.

As I stood nearby watching and listening, I realized something important. The children were not simply noticing a worm after the rain. They were developing theories about how the world works.

Interestingly, their thinking was not far from what scientists understand. When soil becomes saturated with rainwater, the spaces between the soil particles fill with water. As oxygen levels change and the ground becomes waterlogged, earthworms often move toward the surface.

The children did not yet know the scientific language, such as oxygen levels, soil saturation, and waterlogged soil. Instead, they were doing something remarkably similar to what scientists do.

They were observing what was happening.

They were proposing explanations.

They were listening to one another’s ideas and comparing their thinking.

They were building theories.

Once you begin to see children this way, it becomes impossible to unsee it. Children are not simply playing or making random comments. They are constantly trying to make sense of the world. They are constructing explanations, testing ideas, and revising their thinking.

Noticing the Theory in the Moment

In this instance, my fear of worms—and my effort to control that fear—actually helped me pause long enough to pay attention to what the children were thinking.

If I had not slowed down to listen, I might have missed the significance of that moment.

At first glance, it looked like a simple playground interaction. Three children were looking at a worm after the rain. But when I listened more carefully, I realized that something much deeper was happening.

Mateo was proposing that worms come out for air. Ava was suggesting that muddy soil forces them out. Lila believed that the rainwater pushes them up from underground.

Each child was trying to explain the same phenomenon using the knowledge they had at the time. Each was drawing from prior experiences, observations, and conversations.

What looked like a casual conversation was actually an intellectual process. The children were generating explanations, comparing ideas, and refining their thinking.

They were revealing their theories.

Connecting to a Larger Idea

Children’s theories often appear in moments that adults might overlook: during play, while building, when observing insects, or while negotiating ideas with friends. These theories are the ways children organize their understanding of the world.

When adults learn to notice these moments, a hidden layer of thinking becomes visible.

Another way to understand what was happening in that moment with the worm is to consider how researchers have described children’s natural drive to make sense of the world.

Linguist and cognitive scientist Noam Chomsky argued that children are not passive recipients of language or knowledge. In his work on language development, Chomsky proposed that humans are born with an innate capacity to recognize patterns and generate meaning. Rather than simply repeating what they hear, children actively construct rules and organize their understanding of language. His theory suggests that the human mind is naturally oriented toward building structure and explanation. Children are constantly trying to interpret their experiences and fit them into coherent systems of understanding (Chomsky, 1980).

Building on this idea of children as active meaning-makers, developmental psychologist Alison Gopnik offers another powerful perspective. Gopnik suggests that young children learn about the world in ways that resemble how scientists work. She calls this idea “theory theory.” According to Gopnik, children develop intuitive theories about how things work, test those ideas through observation and experience, and revise their thinking as they encounter new evidence. Rather than simply absorbing information, children actively construct explanations about cause and effect. When Mateo suggested that worms come out for air, Ava proposed that muddy soil forces them out, and Lila argued that rainwater pushes them up, they were doing exactly what Gopnik describes. They were observing a phenomenon, proposing explanations, and comparing ideas. In other words, they were engaging in the early forms of scientific reasoning (Gopnik, 2012).

A Practical Lens: How Adults Can Notice and Support Children’s Theories

Recognizing children as theorists changes the adult's role. Instead of focusing primarily on delivering information, adults begin by paying attention to the ideas children are already developing. The goal is not to replace children’s thinking with adult explanations, but to create conditions where their theories can grow, evolve, and deepen.

Listen for the Theory Behind the Words

Children’s theories often appear in ordinary conversations. A comment made during play, a question asked while observing an insect, or a disagreement during block building may reveal how a child is trying to make sense of the world.

When Mateo said that worms come out because they need fresh air, Ava suggested that muddy soil forces them out, and Lila proposed that rainwater pushes them up. Each child was offering an explanation based on what they knew. These explanations are valuable because they reveal the child’s current understanding.

Listening carefully allows adults to identify the theories children are developing.

Resist the Urge to Correct Too Quickly

Adults often feel compelled to provide the correct answer. However, immediately correcting a child’s explanation can interrupt the thinking process that leads to deeper understanding. In the same way, asking too many questions can also become intrusive. When adults over-question, children may feel pressured to perform or search for the “right” response rather than continue exploring their own ideas.

Instead of responding with the correct scientific explanation, or overwhelming the child with questions. Instead, adults can respond with curiosity and restraint. Questions should be used sparingly and strategically, with thoughtful consideration of when they will genuinely support children’s thinking rather than interrupt it.

“What makes you think that?”
“What do you notice happening?”
“Why do you think the worm came out after the rain?”

A few well-timed questions invite children to elaborate on their thinking and consider alternative possibilities, while still leaving space for their own theories and discoveries to unfold.

Create Opportunities for Investigation

Once children’s theories become visible, adults can co-design experiences that allow those ideas to be explored further. In doing so, adults are supporting a process that closely resembles scientific inquiry.

Scientists begin with observations, propose explanations, test their ideas, and revise their understanding based on evidence. Children engage in this same process when they investigate their questions.

If children are curious about worms, they might:

• Observe worms in different types of soil

• Notice what happens after rainstorms

• Draw or document what they see

• Compare their observations over time

Through these experiences, children gather evidence that may confirm, challenge, or refine their theories. Their explanations evolve as they encounter new observations and consider alternative possibilities.

In this way, children are not simply learning facts about worms. They are participating in the process of building knowledge—observing patterns, generating explanations, and revising their thinking in light of new evidence. This is the same intellectual process that underlies scientific theory.

Make Thinking Visible Through Chronicles

Chronicles play a powerful role in supporting children’s theorizing, especially when children participate in creating them. Rather than documentation being something adults produce about children’s learning, chronicles can be co-created with children as they record their ideas, observations, and discoveries.

Children might draw what they notice, dictate their thoughts, photograph what they observe, or revisit earlier conversations and add new ideas. In this way, the chronicle becomes a shared record of their thinking.

When children return to these chronicles, they often notice new patterns, raise new questions, or recognize contradictions in their earlier explanations. Revisiting these records gives them opportunities to refine their theories and extend their investigations.

Co-created chronicles also allow adults to see how children’s thinking evolves over time. They make visible the journey of ideas, and how children’s theories begin, how they shift, and how they grow through observation, conversation, and exploration.

Value the Process of Thinking

The most important shift may be recognizing that learning is not simply about arriving at the correct answer. Too often, education is framed as memorizing facts or repeating information someone else has already discovered. While knowledge certainly matters, learning is far more than remembering the right response. It is about the process of building understanding.

When children develop theories, they are trying to make sense of their experiences. They observe patterns, ask questions, propose explanations, and test their ideas. Their theories may be incomplete, partially accurate, or even incorrect. Yet these ideas are not mistakes to be corrected immediately; they are essential steps in the development of knowledge.

In fact, the process of refining ideas—questioning them, revisiting them, and sometimes replacing them with new explanations—is how understanding grows. Scientific knowledge itself develops in this way. Theories evolve as new evidence emerges and as people reconsider earlier explanations.

Children’s thinking follows a similar path. When a child suggests that worms come out because they need air, or because the soil becomes muddy, they are beginning to construct a model that explains what they observe. As they gather more experiences, discuss ideas with others, and revisit their observations, their explanations become more sophisticated.

When adults value this process of thinking rather than focusing only on correct answers, children are encouraged to continue questioning, exploring, and revising their ideas. They learn that knowledge is not something to memorize and repeat, but something that can be investigated, constructed, and continually deepened. In this way, classrooms become places where children are not simply learning information, but developing the habits of thinkers and investigators.

What a worm revealed about how children build theories about the world

Perhaps that is the most important lesson the worm revealed that day. If we slow down and listen, we begin to see that children are not simply playing or guessing. They are thinking deeply about the world around them. Our role as adults is not only to provide answers but also to notice the questions, theories, and ideas children are already developing, and to create the conditions in which those ideas can grow.

I will admit that I am still afraid of worms. But now, when I see one, I am reminded to pause, to listen, and to look more closely at what children are thinking.

When we truly pay attention, we begin to realize that children are not just learning about the world; they are actively building theories about how it works.

References:

Chomsky, N. (1980). Rules and Representations. New York: Columbia University Press.

Gopnik, A. (2012). Scientific thinking in young children: Theoretical advances, empirical research, and policy implications. Science, 337(6102), 1623–1627.

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It is Monday morning.
Circle time has just begun.

Evelym, the educator, holds a laminated chart with neat rows of names and jobs.

“Okay friends,” she says brightly. “Let’s see who our helpers are this week.”

“Ronald, You will be the line leader.”
“Ellie, You pass out the snack.”
“Cooper, You water the plants.”
“And you…Ava, you will be the door holder.”

Evelyn, the educator, continues to go down the list of “made-up” jobs until every job has been assigned.

Children smile. A few clap. One child wiggles proudly in their seat, while others are not as excited about the job they were assigned.

The chart goes up on the wall.

Leadership has been assigned.

And the week begins.

Uncovering the Assumptions Beneath the Practice

This moment is familiar in many classrooms, and it is almost always created with the best of intentions. When I ask educators why they implement classroom jobs, the responses are strikingly consistent. They speak about wanting children to feel responsible. They want children to contribute. They want them to develop leadership skills. And just as often, there is a more practical answer: the curriculum requires it.

Beneath this well-meaning routine sits an assumption that is rarely examined: “If we give children jobs, they will become leaders and learn to collaborate.” The structure appears to make sense. Roles are clearly defined. Responsibilities are distributed. Each child eventually gets a turn, reinforcing a sense of fairness.

Yet most of these roles are designed by adults to keep the classroom running smoothly. They organize materials, manage transitions, and create order. They offer participation, but within a system already determined. While efficient, these tasks do not necessarily invite children to think, negotiate, or engage with one another in ways that build leadership and increase agency (the capacity to act with intention and make meaningful choices that influence one’s own experience and the surrounding environment).

Because leadership is not about holding a position or completing a task. Leadership lives in the complexity of relationships, in navigating ideas, listening to diverse perspectives, and making meaning with others. It is rooted in empathy, in a growing sense of social responsibility, and in the work of building a community where everyone belongs.

And those ways of being cannot be assigned to a chart that is randomly distributed and assigned by an adult.

Reframing What Leadership Really Looks Like in Children’s Lives

When leadership is reduced to classroom jobs, something subtle begins to take shape in the life of the classroom. Children learn to follow a system created by adults. They learn to carry out roles that have already been defined for them. They learn to move within structures that are organized and controlled by someone else. While these routines may create order and predictability, they quietly position children as participants in a system rather than contributors to a community.

However, leadership develops somewhere else entirely. It emerges in the lived, unfolding moments of children’s interactions with one another. It grows when a child notices someone in need and steps in without being asked. It takes shape when children negotiate whose idea to follow, working through disagreement to stay in a relationship. It becomes visible when a group organizes itself around a shared plan, or when a child speaks up in the face of something that feels unfair. Leadership is evident when a child invites someone to play and takes responsibility for caring for a shared space.

These moments are not neat or predictable. They are often messy, filled with emotion, and shaped by the complexities of perspective-taking and problem-solving. They require children to listen, adapt, and respond to one another in real time.

This is where leadership begins, in the context of community, where children experience what it means to matter to others and to be part of something larger than themselves.

Not in assigned roles.

Situating Leadership Within What Research Reveals About How Children Learn and Grow

Leadership in childhood is not a future outcome waiting to unfold. Instead, it is a way of being shaped in the present by how children live, relate, and participate in an increasingly complex and diverse world. Children need rich opportunities to develop the skills, knowledge, and dispositions that support them in communicating, collaborating, and thinking creatively across differences.

Leadership nurtures children’s confidence, strengthens their problem-solving skills, and supports the development of a strong sense of self. This sense of self, what we understand as self-concept, includes self-worth and self-efficacy, or the belief that one is capable of making an impact.

Leadership is not a role to be assigned or a task to be completed. It is formed through everyday experiences where children come to understand that their ideas are valued, their voices are heard, and their actions can contribute meaningfully to the life of their community.

Ellen Galinsky’s research on executive function deepens understanding of leadership by identifying a set of essential life skills that children need to thrive: focus, self-control, perspective-taking, communication, and making connections (Galinsky, 2010). These executive function skills allow children to regulate impulses, consider others’ viewpoints, plan and organize their actions, and adapt to changing situations. They are foundational to real leadership because they help children navigate relationships and make thoughtful decisions. Importantly, executive function is not developed through passive participation in adult-designed structures. It grows through active social engagement, problem-solving, and meaningful interactions with others, precisely the kinds of experiences children encounter in rich, relational environments.

Research on play further reinforces this idea. When children engage in collaborative and unscripted play, they naturally practice cooperation, empathy, negotiation, and shared decision-making (Bodrova & Leong, 2007; Ginsburg, 2007). These moments, often messy and unpredictable, are where leadership begins to take shape. Children take on roles, consider multiple perspectives, and work together toward shared goals. In other words, the very experiences that grow leadership are already present in children’s play and community life. The key is to recognize the skills that children build in play, value them, and create the conditions for them to flourish.

Reimagining Leadership as Something Children Live, Not Something We Assign

Building leadership requires more than assigning responsibility—it calls for creating conditions where children can return to their ideas, deepen their thinking, and see themselves as capable contributors to a shared community. Through a Revisiting Journeys lens, leadership emerges when children are given time and space to revisit experiences, reflect on their actions, and expand their ideas in collaboration with others. When children return to a moment—whether it is a block structure, a conflict, or a shared plan—they begin to refine their thinking, consider multiple perspectives, and take greater ownership of their contributions. This process strengthens their sense of agency and positions them as thinkers whose ideas evolve and matter over time. Creating the conditions for unscripted play experiences that invite negotiation, imagination, and collective problem-solving. Dramatic play creates opportunities for children to take on roles, explore fairness, and engage in perspective-taking. In play, children practice listening, adapting, and organizing ideas with others. They move between leading and following, developing the flexibility and empathy that leadership requires. Revisiting these play experiences, through conversation, chronicles, or reconstruction, allows children to see patterns in their thinking and deepen their understanding of relationships, responsibility, and community.

Finally, leadership grows when children are invited to participate meaningfully in issues that matter to them and their community. This includes opportunities to engage in acts of care, social justice, and sustainability. Whether advocating for fairness in play, contributing to shared spaces, or taking action on real-world concerns. Children develop leadership when they experience altruism and empathy and gain the ability to effect change. When educators listen closely, ask thoughtful questions, and create space for children to act on their ideas, they help children recognize that they are not just participants in a system but active citizens capable of shaping their world.

Recognizing Leadership in the Moments We Tend to Miss

Shifting our assumptions allows leadership to help us see what has always been present. Leadership in childhood rarely appears on a chart. It lives in the everyday moments of classroom life, when a child helps two friends work through a disagreement, when someone notices a peer standing alone and offers an invitation into play, or when a group organizes itself to build something larger than any one child could create alone. It is present when a child speaks up in the face of unfairness or takes responsibility for caring for a shared space. These are not small or incidental moments. They are acts of leadership unfolding in real time.

Educators nurture leadership when they make these moments visible and worthy of reflection. By naming what children are already doing for the community, “I noticed you helped everyone find the blocks they needed; that supported the whole group,” we help children see the impact of their actions. By creating spaces where children make decisions, we position them as thinkers and contributors. By supporting children in seeing one another and working through social challenges together, we strengthen empathy, perspective-taking, and collective responsibility. When leadership is understood in this way, it no longer rotates among children once a week. It becomes a lived experience, woven into the fabric of the classroom, where every day offers children another opportunity to practice, refine, and embody what it means to lead.

References

• Galinsky, E. (2010). Mind in the Making: The Seven Essential Life Skills Every Child Needs.

• Ginsburg, K. R. (2007). The importance of play in promoting healthy child development. Pediatrics, 119(1), 182–191.

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A Story Unfolding in Play

Noah is crouched under the dining room table, pulling a blanket down along the edges so it drapes like walls around her. The table had become a cave. Inside the cave, the light was dim and quiet. Two stuffed animals sat beside him, and a wooden spoon rested across his knees like a tool of great importance.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered to the animals. “I’ll take care of you.”

Outside the cave, the ordinary world continued. Dishes clinked in the kitchen. A chair scraped against the floor. But inside the cave, another story was unfolding.

The animals were afraid. Something dangerous was coming, but Noah had a safety plan.

An ordinary wooden spoon had symbolically transformed into a magic instrument capable of fixing almost anything. tapped it against the floor and announced to the stuffed animals, “You are now safe.”

The Story Continues Throughout the Day

Later that afternoon, Noah lined up small blocks along the windowsill. Each block became a building in a city. A small wooden figure moved through the streets.

“The storm is coming,” explained to the stuffed bunny sitting next to her.

The buildings were rearranged again and again. A tower collapsed. Noah carefully moves a wooden figurine around and rebuilds the tower. The figurine is the superhero who saves the city by building a wall to protect it from the storm.

Hours later, during bath time, the story continued in the water. Plastic animals floated across the surface like travelers crossing a wide sea. One animal slipped beneath the water and disappeared. Noah gasped, then quickly plunged her hand into the bath and pulled it out.

“Don’t worry,” she told the dripping creature. “You’re safe now.”

Across the day, the same themes quietly repeated themselves.

Danger.

Rescue.

Protection.

Repair.

Noah’s family had recently lost their home during a powerful hurricane. In the days that followed, the adults spoke quietly about the storm, the damage, and the long process of rebuilding. Noah listened, watched, and felt the changes around her. Through play, she returned to the images and emotions that surrounded her—storms approaching, buildings falling, someone stepping in to help, and the careful work of making things safe again.

Looking Beneath the Surface of Play

To adults, these moments can appear disconnected—small fragments of play that seem unrelated. Yet researchers who have observed children closely often recognize something deeper unfolding within these scenes.

I have recently re-read the seminal work of Selma Fraiberg. In her book The Magic Years: Understanding and Handling the Problems of Early Childhood (Fraiberg, 1959), she described imagination as one of the child’s most powerful tools for managing internal conflict. Through imaginative play, children transform feelings that might otherwise feel overwhelming into stories they can shape and control. The symbolic world of play allows children to create distance from difficult emotions while still engaging with them. A frightening experience can be revisited as a story with a beginning, middle, and end. Within that story, the child can experiment with different outcomes, roles, and possible resolutions.

Children possess an innate capacity to process difficult feelings through imagination and play. The real question is whether adults allow them the time, space, and freedom to do so.

Even today, Fraiberg’s words continue to resonate. Her work opens space for deeper conversations about how adults perceive children’s emotional lives and the ways we interpret what we call children’s mental health challenges. When we observe children through a developmental lens, we begin to see that imaginative play is not a distraction from emotional growth but one of its central pathways.

In this process, children are not escaping reality. They are interpreting it. A child who repeatedly plays the role of a protector may be exploring feelings of vulnerability. A child who builds, destroys, and rebuilds structures may be working through ideas about instability and repair. Through imaginative play, children revisit and reorganize experiences, gradually integrating them into their understanding of the world.

This kind of play is not simply entertainment. It is a developmental process that supports emotional regulation, resilience, and meaning-making that emerges when environments invite imagination and children are given freedom to explore. These chronicles allow children to move feelings from confusion toward understanding, from chaos toward coherence.

Connecting Fraiberg’s Insights to Current Research

When Selma Fraiberg wrote The Magic Years: Understanding and Handling the Problems of Early Childhood (1959), she described imagination as one of the central mechanisms through which children manage their emotional lives. Through fantasy and symbolic play, children revisit experiences that may feel confusing, frightening, or overwhelming and reorganize them into narratives they can control. Decades later, contemporary research continues to affirm this insight. Scholars studying pretend play consistently find strong connections between imaginative play and children’s emotional regulation, social understanding, and psychological resilience. Pretend play creates a flexible mental space where children can explore emotional situations, rehearse responses, and experiment with different roles without real-world consequences.

Michael Huber’s work, The Power of Pretend Play: Nurturing Children’s Imagination for Healthy Development (2024), builds on this understanding by examining how imaginative play supports children’s emotional and cognitive growth. Huber argues that pretend play provides children with a safe arena for processing experiences, exploring fears, and practicing problem-solving. When children create narratives, assume roles, and transform objects into symbolic tools, they engage in emotional rehearsal that strengthens their ability to cope with real-life challenges.

Other researchers have reached similar conclusions. Studies examining preschool children’s play have found that high-quality pretend play is closely linked to the development of self-regulation, the ability to manage emotions, attention, and behavior (Verhagen et al., 2018). Through role play and narrative creation, children practice controlling impulses, negotiating with peers, and navigating emotionally complex situations.

Experimental research also shows that dramatic pretend play can strengthen emotional control. In one study with four-year-olds, children who participated in structured dramatic play activities demonstrated measurable improvements in emotional self-regulation compared to peers engaged in other activities (Goldstein & Lerner, 2018). These findings suggest that imaginative play is not only expressive but also developmental—it actively contributes to children’s ability to regulate emotions.

The American Academy of Pediatrics has likewise emphasized the importance of play in supporting children’s mental health. Their policy statement on play highlights that playful experiences help children manage stress, build resilience, and develop the executive functioning skills needed for emotional regulation and problem-solving (Yogman et al., 2018).

Imagination as a Pathway to Inquiry

In my latest book, Revisiting Journeys: Understand how Children Reflect, Reimagine and Redesign Their Play and Learning, imaginative play is also understood as a pathway into inquiry. Children often begin their investigative journeys through moments of power in play. When a child transforms a stick into a sword, a cape into the ability to fly, or a block structure into a fortress, they are exploring questions about agency, protection, vulnerability, and control. These moments of imaginative power invite children to test ideas about how the world works and how they exist within it.

In Revisiting Journeys, adults pay close attention to these moments because they often signal the beginning of deeper thinking. When children revisit their play—reconstructing scenes, retelling stories, rebuilding environments—they begin to reflect on their own theories. The imaginative scenario serves as an entry point for inquiry. Children return to the experience, reconsider what happened, and expand the story with new ideas, new roles, and new possibilities.

Through revisiting, imagination becomes both an emotional process and an intellectual exploration. Children move from spontaneous play to reflection and meaning-making. What begins as a dramatic rescue story may evolve into questions about fairness, safety, relationships, or power. In this way, imaginative play supports not only emotional well-being but also the development of children’s thinking.

A Question Worth Asking

Taken together, this body of research echoes Fraiberg’s original insight. Imaginative play is not merely a pleasant activity in childhood. It is one of the primary ways children process experiences, experiment with emotions, and build the psychological capacities that support mental health.

At a time when concerns about children’s mental health are increasing, revisiting Fraiberg’s work alongside contemporary research invites an important reflection. Rather than viewing imagination as a break from learning, developmental science increasingly shows that imaginative play is deeply connected to the very skills—emotional regulation, resilience, social understanding, and inquiry—that adults hope to cultivate in children.

Are We Contributing to the Problem?

Are we creating further mental health issues in our current approach to education and child development?

This question invites us to pause and examine the environments we have created for children. If imaginative play truly serves as a primary pathway for children to process emotions, experiment with power, and make sense of their experiences, then reducing play opportunities may have unintended consequences. In many educational settings today, children move quickly from task to task within tightly structured schedules that prioritize measurable outcomes over exploratory processes. When time for imagination, storytelling, and symbolic play is diminished, children may lose one of their most natural mechanisms for working through fear, uncertainty, and frustration. Rather than assuming that children themselves are increasingly fragile, we might consider whether the systems surrounding them are limiting the developmental tools they need. Reintroducing time for play, inquiry, and revisiting experiences may not only support learning but also restore an essential pathway for emotional well-being.

Questions for Reflection

What might children be trying to understand emotionally when we observe repeated themes of danger, rescue, or power in their imaginative play?

How might our current educational structures—schedules, curriculum pacing, and adult expectations—be limiting the time and space children need to process experiences through imagination?

What might change in our responses to children’s behavior if we first considered play as a form of emotional and intellectual inquiry rather than simply an activity?

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References

Fraiberg, S. (1959). The Magic Years: Understanding and Handling the Problems of Early Childhood. Scribner.

Goldstein, T., & Lerner, M. (2018). Dramatic pretend play games uniquely improve emotional control in young children. Developmental Science.

Huber, M. (2024). The Power of Pretend Play: Nurturing Children’s Imagination for Healthy Development. Redleaf Press.

Verhagen, J., Leseman, P., & Harris, P. (2018). Self-regulation and pretend play in early childhood. Early Childhood Research Quarterly.

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