An Unstructured Day

Joni and Andrew were up and out early this morning, off to work; Joni in a pink, glittered suit (meeting with the boss’s boss), Andrew in beige shorts and black shirt bearing JimmyJohn logo. As the door slams behind them, the whirlwind subsides,18-month old Mya and I look at each other. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but I’m thinking “OMG!” A whole day with this kid.

Right then, I made a decision. This child lives such an ordered, structured life that my gift to her will be an unstructured day. No toys. No flat screens. No pre-programmed activities. We make it up as we go along from whatever comes along.

First stop, the back deck, upon which was nothing but a barbecue grill and two chairs. Seeing nothing to play with, Mya ran to the gate leading out the the yard. She rattled the gate indicating that she wanted out. I plopped in the chair and shook my head. “We’re staying right here.” Just then a school bus rolled by. “School bus,” I called. Seconds later, another followed close behind. “School bus,” I cried again, pointing. Mya smiled. The game was on.

First, Mya learned that the big yellow ‘car’ with many windows was not a ‘car,’ but a ‘school bus.’ Next she learned that, even before the bus appeared, she could identify it by the distinctive roar of the engine. This was all very exciting. When a jet passed overhead, the game reached a new level of complexity.

Meanwhile, amid the passing of bus and jetliner, with nothing else to do, Mya pushed the empty chair up against the railing--her aim, to climb into the chair and possibly escape over the railing. But alas, try as she might, her legs were too short. A push on the butt and up she wiggled. Triumph! She grinned in delight, as seen in the accompanying photo. Then came the challenge of wiggling off the chair without sustaining a bump on the head. It took several attempts to master the feat of dexterity and coordination. It isn’t easy pulling a short little leg from beneath a fat little tummy. Mya struggled with each descent, but eventually discovered that the trick was to get both knees under said fat little tummy before the downward slide. Thus passed the morning.

After lunch and a nap, we moved to the front porch where the most splendid entertainment awaited. There, in a large bowl of water (meant for the dog) swam one very frustrated but determined cricket. Mya looked at me and pointed to poor creature who paddled furiously from side to side in search of a foothold. “Gug,” Mya said, pointing to the insect. What to do? I sat down beside her and, together, we pondered the cricket’s predicament.

Empty the bowl. Fill the bowl. Empty the bowl. Fill the bowl. On and on throughout the afternoon. A school bus arrived. “School bus!” Students passed by the porch. “Gug,” said Mya pointing to the bowl. A few stopped to admire.

The story has a happy ending. With pebbles Mya gathered, we built an small island in the middle of the bowl. Little Miss Cricket seized her opportunity. Onto the island she swam and, with one quick hop, she jumped onto Mya’s arm to deliver a quick “thank you” before retreating to the bushes. Mya raised her hands, “Gug.” All gone.

Mommy and daddy returned from work--the end of our unstructured day.

The following morning when I peeked into Mya’s room, I saw not a baby, but a little girl sitting pensively in her crib.

The toddler--childhood’s adolescent.