I’m lucky enough to have brought two wonderful children into this world.  My daughter is a movie buff who is constantly making things; mind maps for her studies, art for her walls, presents for her friends, animations on her phone.  My son likes to play.  He’ll draw games, play games, make up games, but where his real passion lies is computer games, particularly the online kind he can play with his friends.  Both of them spend a good chunk of their time on screens.  When my daughter is making things there’s often a movie or her current favourite series playing in the background.  For my son, the X-box is King, but he’s also into YouTube videos and TikTok, particularly videos that ridicule school and teachers (easy to see where his angst lies.)

Like many parents of this generation, I occasionally find myself indulging in fear cycles around their screen time. I’ve been here before, and I’ll no doubt go there again.  Which is why on occasions I like to remind myself of memories like this one:

The day we watched the train

I get my occasionally manic enthusiasm from my dad; he sees something he wants and gets so caught up in it that he convinces everyone else it’s a great idea.  On a summers day in 2023 it was a steam train, not just any steam train but a legendary one.  It was passing through a local station and my dad whipped my two children and their two cousins into a steam train frenzy;

“who wants to see a steam train?” 

“Me!  Me!”

So an hour before bedtime (commonly known to parents of young children everywhere as the danger zone), off we trotted to the station.  Crowds were gathering on the platform.  Some were just waiting for a normal train and seemed bemused by the growing number of people setting up cameras on tripods, others were busy finding a prime spot on the platform for the best view of the steam train as it sped through the station (nope, it wasn’t even stopping, we were merely gathered to be spectators to its passing).

The children set up camp on the platform and my son proceeded to give his younger cousins a stern talking to about the dangers of the train track and how important it was they stayed close to us at all times. 

Twenty minutes later, still no train.  My children teach their cousins how to play rock, paper scissors.

Thirty minutes later, still no train.  The children engage in some serious tickling.

Forty minutes later, still no train.  There are petitions to Grandad for an update on the arrival time: “Why is it so late?  When is it coming?  Shall we just give up and go home?”  Rock, paper scissors resumes with some added twists (rock, paper, scissors, gun?)

Fifty minutes later:  we move to the other side of the platform, which kills five minutes and gives us another five minutes reprieve as the children settle into their new vantage point.

Sixty minutes later:  the children begin to gather stones of all shapes and sizes.

Seventy minutes later:  they’ve set up a game involving the stones.  I don’t understand the rules, but they do.

Eighty minutes later: the train comes steaming through.  It’s magnificent, but the children are so caught up in playing they almost miss it.

Eighty-one minutes later: the children return the stones to their resting place.

Eighty-two minutes later: the youngest child gets upset because it’s time to leave the station and she’s not done playing.

I thought I was going to watch a steam train…

And I did.  But for an hour and twenty minutes I also got to watch my family.  I got to see the care, compassion and patience my children have as they looked after and entertained their younger cousins.  I got to see that playfulness is innate in our children.  Maybe we don’t see it in the way that we’re used to when they’re playing on screens, but it’s always there, and it’ll make an appearance in the most unlikely of places, if we’re paying attention.  Like on a quiet summers evening, sitting cross legged on a train station platform, waiting for an exceptionally late steam train to whistle on by.

We don’t stop playing because we grow old, we grow old because we stop playing.

George Bernard Shaw