The Importance of Play(ing)...in the snow

We get one or two good snows around here a year, if we are lucky.  By good snow, I mean enough to play in but not so much that children can't maneuver in it.  A few inches of fluffy, glorious snow that draws kids outside into temperatures they would otherwise not choose to play in. 

In the two days that we've been out of school, my daughters have spent at least five hours (thus far) out in the bitter cold.  When they come in their cheeks are red, their noses are running, and their eyes are shining.  For some of those hours, my husband and I have joined them.  We have gone sledding, played on two snow-covered playgrounds, and tried (without success with this powdery stuff) to build a snowman. 

Hooray for snow and all the fun it brings.  Hooray for the extra playtime it brings our way.

Until tomorrow, when they go back to school and can't go near it.  When recess time rolls around the kids will have indoor play, either in their classrooms or in the gym.  I'm not sure why.  But I know they aren't supposed to get near the snow.

After the last snow, a friend in Pennsylvania emailed around a copy of a letter her son's teacher sent home.  It asked parents to send in snow pants and boots so the children, third graders, could enjoy the snow during recess.  Right on.

We all know about the importance of play--especially physical play.  So what if the kids get wet.  So what if the floors get wet.  Their shouts of joy, their enthusiasm, their complete immersion in fun, are worth it.

Straight Lines

This morning I was rereading Georgia Heard and Jennifer McDonough's A Place for Wonder:  Reading and Writing Nonfiction in the Primary Grades when I was stopped short by this beautiful poem.  It captures what I believe so movingly:

All the kindergarteners
walk to recess and back
in a perfectly straight line
no words between them.
They must stifle their small voices,
their laughter, they must
stop the little skip in their walk,
they must line up
at the water fountain
straight, and in perfect form,
like the brick wall behind them.
One of their own given the job
of informer--guard of quiet,
soldier of stillness.
If they talk
or make a sound
they will lose their stars.
Little soldiers marching to and from
pretend
their hair sweaty
from escaping dinosaurs
their hearts full of loving the world
and all they want to do
is shout it out
at the top of their lungs.
When they walk back to class
they must quietly
fold their pretends into pockets,
must dam the river of words,
ones they're just learning
new words that hold the power
to light the skies, and if they don't
a star is taken away.
One star
by one star
until night grows dark and heavy
while they learn to think carefully
before skipping,
before making a wish.

I believe childhood is too precious to press into straight lines.  Thank you Georgia and Jennifer for confirming that.