18/10/2025
Pretty much the entire public school system in Western society (which is the only school system I have personal experience with, hence my qualifier) is rooted in:
Adults decide when kids need to know stuff.
Adults tell the kids the stuff.
Adults test to see if the kids retained the stuff.
Adults try to enforce/motivate kids to retain the stuff better if they didn’t get it enough the first time.
This type of model isn’t only present in the academic setting. It echoes throughout tons of systems that children live in and move throughout each day.
Behavior? Adults decide when kids ought to be behaving a certain way, tell them to do it, test (or watch organically) to see if they do it, and then try to enforce or motivate them to do it if they didn’t do it well enough.
Disability? Adults set goals for how the kids can “catch up” or gain new skills, try to teach those skills into them, test them on it, and enforce or motivate if they aren’t doing them well enough.
Physical skills? Self-care skills? Socializing? Empathy? Yep, yep, yep, and yep. All of the above. This is the *common* model. Obviously not everybody adheres to it. But it’s what’s societally expected for how to approach children.
How else could we “get” them to do things? Learn new things? Try hard things? Conquer new skills? Grow?
***
Here’s the thing. I don’t see children as a lump of clay you have to mold into a finished sculpture. That was a popular model of how to view kids, in the culture I was raised in. I don’t ascribe to that.
I see kids as, if anything, a seed. If I left the seed wholly alone, it would still grow. It’s still gonna become a whole living thing. Now if I left it alone and never helped it or cared for it, of course it will be more scraggly and rough and weather-hardened than it would otherwise because it had to fend entirely for itself. And I don’t want that for my children, so I don’t leave them wholly alone. But neither am I making them what they are. I’m just trying to protect them and care for them while they grow into the whole gorgeous living things that they will be and already are.
With that in mind, I can’t help but push against “the system”, the societally-expected way for children to learn things, try things, conquer things, grow, because I don’t see literally any of it as necessary, generally speaking.
Generally speaking,
I don’t decide when kids need to know stuff.
I don’t tell them the stuff.
I don’t test them to see if they’ve learned stuff.
I don’t try to motivate them to learn something, or enforce their learning if they haven’t got it the first time.
***
Now in my job as an OT, I actually, literally, do sometimes have to help kids gain skills that they’re lagging behind on. How can this possibly be compatible with what I’m saying?
Well, I spoke in generalities above. The truth is that sometimes I do certainly *hope* to help children learn stuff.
I sort of tell them about it, in the sense that I model how cool it is with my own body, and I talk about the things I'm feeling when they're relevant and authentic, but I never “tell” a word unless I’m asked.
I don’t test them on anything. I am constantly observing their play and doing my best to analyze and understand it, though.
The only “try to motivate” I do is the same as above…engaging authentically with my own body with that skill, and maybe they’ll get interested too, or maybe they won’t.
How can I make these types of things work? It’s right there in my name. I “just” play.
***
I think that kids learn new things and try hard things at the convergence of 3 different overlapping points:
“I feel capable.”
“I feel interested.”
“I feel connected.”
When I see a kid for OT for the first time (and also, at home with parenting), I put loads of emphasis on our connection. It’s really a measure of safety—does this child feel safe with me? Because how could they possibly go around trying hard things or learning new skills with someone hovering over them making them feel unsafe?
With the kids I see for OT, the part that’s usually most broken for them is either “I feel interested” or “I feel capable” (or both). For them, actually, school has most likely been an exercise in the *exact opposites*.
“I *don’t* feel capable. Not whatsoever. You’re asking me to write. Well, they’ve been sticking a pencil in my hand and moving it across the page since I was three. My little squishy cartilaginous hands couldn’t hold the pencil then and they’re hurting while I try to compensate now. All that time spent sitting quietly at preschool was time I *didn’t* spend running, climbing, squishing play-doh, digging in dirt, putting together legos, and they’ve just never developed like they should. This hurts. This sucks. Everybody else can do it but me. I’m bad at this. I’m a bad writer. I’ll NEVER be able to do this.”
“I *don’t* feel interested. Not one bit. They’re droning on and on and on about endless, pointless things. Some guy named Johnny Appleseed; the habitats of some lizard; a million billion math problems. I don’t care about writing a sentence. I don’t care about pushing numbers around to make some other number. None of this is alive. None of this is sensory-rich. Maybe my brain doesn’t attend like yours does; maybe the letters or numbers swim on the page in front of my eyes; maybe I just LOVE space and none of this is about space. This sucks. I hate it. I don’t give a crap. I don’t want to be here.”
So my job is those. Those, plus guarding the relationship connection, so I don’t inadvertently break it.
And I do that through play.
It’s ALWAYS through play.
Or else I’m just one of the adults in the system…deciding what a kid needs to know, telling them, testing them, enforcing it. Because I don’t know how else to *make* them grow. Like reaching down, pinching the top of the stem of the seedling, and pulling on it in hopes I’ll make it taller, faster.
I can’t *make* them.
But I can connect with them. I can interest them. I can help build the underlying skills so their capability grows.
I can play alongside them until they realize that writing can be joy, can be human, can be delight spilling from their hands.
I can play alongside them until they realize that there is some way on this amazing advanced earth that they can do the thing they thought they couldn’t, and some way to listen to their brain and honor it.
I can play alongside them until they know for absolute sure that somebody loves them and is on their team no matter what.
I can play, I can play, I can play.
That’s the whole thing. That’s all of it. That’s the native language of children. That’s the heart of the way children grow. That’s the whole thing. That’s why I am who I am.
***
[Image description:
A Venn diagram of 3 overlapping circles. The circles are labeled, "I feel capable," "I feel connected," and "I feel interested."
For the circle that only has "I feel capable" without the other two, there is a speech bubble that reads, "I'm full of creative energy, but where could I channel it?"
For only "I feel connected" without the other two, there's a speech bubble for, "I love hanging out with you. But I don't really want to do that, or that, or..."
For only "I feel interested" without the other two, the bubble reads, "This is amazing to learn or dream about. But where would I even begin, or who would help me?"
Then there are overlaps:
Where "I feel capable" and "I feel connected" overlap (but without "interested"), it says, "I'll try to humor you...or do the bare minimum."
Where "I feel connected" and "I feel interested" overlap (but without "capable"), it says, "You do it. I want to watch."
Where "I feel interested" and "I feel capable" overlap (but without "connected"), it says, "Go away & maybe I'll investigate on my own."
In the center, where all 3 overlap, a speech bubble reads, "I could try something hard! I could learn something new!"
My handle, , is also on the image.
End description.]
