It’s not uncommon for people to remark that they could never “stay at home” with children because it is so boring. Just how boring is it? Arguably, not as boring as many of the jobs to which tired parents flee to remove themselves from the crushing weight of full-time childcare.
Given favorable circumstances, staying home with children can be active, varied, and interesting. For modest expense, or none at all in the case of libraries and parks, you can keep a few kids actively engaged in outings, projects, books, games, and life generally. It’s not inherently dull to spend time with children.
Is it supposed to be a hamster wheel of endless activity, though? There seems to be a developmental need for quiet time, moments of unstructured activity, being and not doing. The overstimulated child has been known to spend a Saturday morning quietly engaged with a stick in the yard, no further activity required to occupy him.
In reading Annis Duff’s “Bequest of Wings,” I was struck by her recommendation to use nursery rhymes as a catchy way to convince reluctant children to hurry home. The context of this observation was, according to her, a daily walk while the baked potatoes cooked for lunch. Did they have a baked potato every day? Is this an indication of wartime deprivation? After all, this was the early 1940s. And they took a walk around the neighborhood every day?
Far from being bored, the author’s young son was continually captivated by depositing acorns in the storm drain. So engrossed was he in this activity that the potatoes were likely to burn, hence the need for a catchy, “To market to market…” to rouse him to sprint home for a modest lunch of roasted spud. Children, if given the space and time, really are like that. Almost otherworldly in their ability to meditatively arrange and consider, sort and plop.
Yet, we assume the children are bored. I once heard an interesting exchange between one of the types of people who assume that neonates are tortured by their lack of mobility and deep engagement. The other person objected that to the baby, everything must be fascinating because it is all new. That wonder with which the young behold even the most banal activity, the fantasies they create of one day having the august position of grocery store cashier. It is all so new and so interesting and deserving of the time to consider it.
There is also a two-way experience. The adult at home with children has the opportunity to become again like a little child. It was only after reading with children that I learned to reread books. I used to think the task was complete. What could possibly be gained by rehashing what you already read? But what if it is not simply a task but it is an experience, one that strikes differently in different circumstances and offers new and nuanced details to the patient observer who revisits?
With all this lush talk about the value of boredom, there is an important caveat: It’s not just a matter of doing nuthin. Entropy exists. Sin is real. Endless unstructured hours without a felt sense of meaning and purpose are indeed a prison. And that may be the boredom that people fear (rightly) with children.
The talented YouTuber Johnny Harris has a video that gives a succinct and memorable explanation of boredom, including the fact that many people, when faced with boredom will resort to sadism to escape the discomfort of nothing much to do. I enjoyed Harris’s overview of developing the mental muscles to choose activity in the absence of stimulation, how to learn to respond with civility in the face of boredom.
Being home with children can be Edenic. Beyond the work-a-day considerations of bills to pay and tasks to be accomplished, there is being. Dropping acorns in the storm drain one at a time; rereading stories because you liked them; eating simple foods that predictably supply nourishment; quiet backdrops for interior development. However, without the scaffolding of stories, culture, activities, and recreation, that heaven can become a hell. It’s a subtle art that our civilization has lost touch with, much to its peril.
Maybe there’s no such thing as being bored with young children; only boring adults.
