01/11/2026
I lived this piece of history and in reflecting on it I see how societally we have forgotten so many of the very things that allow us to properly develop neurologically.
One by one they have been, and are being stripped away.
The recent modification and literal removal of many of the childhood neurodevelopmental milestones is another example of literally creating policy ensuring weaker, sicker, emotionally lacking humans are the end product, all in the name of “progress”.
I for one am encouraging those who still remember to share with those who don’t those things we have lost and help us restore our society to a healthier, happier, more functional state.
It starts in the home with the family, a loving family, sharing a meal, taking the time to show interest and care for one another without the interruptions of TV, phones, or anything that would prevent togetherness.
The naps we had as kids taught us that it’s ok to stop, to rest, to say no to an activity, to be comfortable in quiet, to process our thoughts. To actually learn.
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When We Taught Children How to Rest — And Then Forgot Why It Mattered
In the 1950s, there was a moment in every kindergarten day so predictable you could set your watch by it.
After the singing.
After the crayons worn down to stubs.
After circle time and sticky fingers from graham crackers and small cardboard milk boxes—
The lights would dim.
A record would settle onto a turntable.
The needle would crackle, then find its groove.
Something soft would fill the room. Something slow. Something kind.
And twenty little bodies would stretch out on striped mats or faded rugs. Shoes tucked under cots. Blankets—frayed, thumb-worn, familiar—pulled up to chins. A room full of children learning, together, how to exhale.
Naptime.
For millions of children growing up in the 1950s, ’60s, and early ’70s, this ritual was as essential to kindergarten as finger paint and the alphabet. It wasn’t filler. It wasn’t babysitting.
It was the lesson.
Stillness Was Once Part of the Curriculum
Educators believed something we’ve slowly forgotten:
young children need quiet.
Not just sleep—but stillness.
A pause where feelings could settle.
A space where overstimulated minds could wander safely.
A reset before the afternoon rush of blocks, numbers, and playground dust.
The science agreed. Children’s brains and nervous systems were still under construction. Rest wasn’t a reward. It wasn’t optional.
It was developmental maintenance.
Teachers became guardians of calm. Soft voices. Slow footsteps between rows of breathing bodies. A whispered story read to no one and everyone. A hand smoothing a blanket. A steady presence in low light.
A lighthouse.
The Quiet That Shaped Us
Some children slept—deep, open-mouthed sleep—exhausted by morning play and the overwhelming newness of school.
Others didn’t.
They stared at the ceiling.
Counted tiles.
Watched dust motes dance in a thin blade of sunlight slipping through the curtains.
They drifted into that rare kind of daydreaming that only happens when you’re five—when time is wide and nobody is rushing you to become something yet.
Even the kids who hated naptime learned something important.
That sometimes you have to be still, even when you don’t want to be.
That rest is not the opposite of learning.
It’s part of the work.
For many children, it was the only stillness in an otherwise loud, busy day. A quiet bridge between lunchboxes and hopscotch. Between learning letters and learning how to share.
Then We Decided to Hurry
By the 1970s and ’80s, something shifted.
Kindergarten stopped being about socialization and curiosity and started being about readiness.
Pre-reading. Early math. Staying on track. Getting ahead.
Schedules tightened. Testing crept younger. Parents worried about falling behind before childhood had even properly begun.
Naptime began to feel inefficient.
Unproductive.
A luxury we could no longer afford.
So the mats were rolled up.
The record players disappeared.
Overhead projectors replaced them. Then computers. Then tablets.
By the 1990s, naptime was mostly gone from public kindergarten classrooms—surviving only in preschools and full-day programs for very young children.
A Day With No Pause
Today’s kindergarteners move from reading groups to math centers to screens to lunch to more instruction. Recess—if they get it—is brief. Quiet is rare.
There is no dimming of lights.
No permission to close your eyes.
No collective exhale.
And we act surprised when childhood anxiety soars.
What We Remember — And What We Lost
Those who lived it still remember:
The rows of striped mats.
The scratch of a needle finding vinyl.
The smell of that one blanket that probably only got washed twice a year.
The relief of being told it was okay—expected, even—to stop trying so hard.
Naptime wasn’t just about sleep.
It taught us that rest has value.
That quiet has purpose.
That you don’t need to be productive every minute to be worthy.
It was a lesson we didn’t realize we were learning—until we grew up in a world that never stops and makes us feel guilty for needing to pause.
Maybe That’s the Lesson Worth Remembering
To parents: your kids likely don’t have this anymore—and they’re expected to perform at full speed all day long.
To teachers fighting to protect play and rest: you’re not being soft. You’re honoring what science has always known.
To anyone who feels ashamed for needing rest: we used to teach five-year-olds that stopping was part of learning.
And to those who say childhood is “too easy” now—today’s kindergarteners have more structured academic time than third-graders did in the 1950s.
We didn’t make childhood harder because it was necessary.
We made it harder because we forgot how to slow down.
We once dimmed the lights, put on a record, and gave twenty small people permission to just… be.
Maybe it’s time we remembered how.
