E-Mail This Article to a Friend Pressing play On learning to do nothing, just for the fun of it BY KRIS FRIESWICK

Until very recently, I feared my young niece and nephew. I love them madly, but I also feared them. I was okay with the noise, the mess, the occasional dirty diaper (as long as it was very occasional). I feared them because the first thing they always say to me when I walk into my sister’s house to visit is, "Auntie Krissy, come play with us." And until a short time ago, I didn’t know how.

I didn’t realize I didn’t know how to play until these kids came along. Prior to their existence, playing was something I did with a musical instrument or a CD. I can’t recall the last time I whiled away the hours doing something pleasant for no other reason than that it is pleasant. Life is too damn short to while.

Then the kids arrived, and man, can they play. My nephew Ben can play with an object — any object — indefinitely. I just stand there, watching him, partially in awe, partially confused, wondering, "What is he trying to accomplish? What’s he thinking about?" Then he’ll drop the object, it’ll roll across the floor, and he’ll scamper after it, pick it up, and smile up at me like he just won the lottery. He will do this for hours. It is simply remarkable.

Maybe when I was two I could play like Ben does, but by the time I was eight, playing was superfluous. For some reason, I thought it was important to invest my time acquiring the important skills I would need as an adult. And so every activity had a higher purpose. For Christmas, I wanted pens and paper, so I could become a writer. I wanted a bike, so I could get around faster than by walking. I was in a hurry even then.

There is abundant lingering evidence of my pragmatic youth. My grandfather had a Super-8 camera, so most of my childhood was recorded. My sister and brother like to remind me of one particular film in which we are playing a game of "Ring Around the Rosie." I, of course, direct the scene, ensuring that the participants — my six-year-old sister and four-year-old brother — form a proper circle, and do not fall down until the song says so. My brother does not cooperate. Although it’s a silent film, you can clearly see that I am reaming him out, and I can remember my exact words: "Look! This is going down on film. Do you want to be recorded for posterity falling down during the ‘ashes, ashes’ part of the song? Well, do you? That’s not the way we want to present ourselves on film, is it? Now stand up and do it right." I’m still astounded that my brother never tried to murder me in my sleep.

Now that I’m an adult, things that should be considered fun are always fraught with intention and purpose. A bicycle ride is not just a spin through the countryside but a way to burn calories and develop cardiovascular fitness. A nice dinner out is always a hunt for new recipes and cooking styles. Walking along a deserted beach is an excellent way to tone and firm sagging calf muscles while smoothing rough calluses on the feet. When I stop walking, the idea of dozing off in the sun never occurs to me — this is the time to catch up on all the reading I neglect at home. Everything has a purpose. That purpose is never "play."

I know I’m not alone. Most people cram so much into their days and nights that the concept of doing something for absolutely no reason other than to get a kick ranks right up there with eating trans fats and watching Three’s Company reruns.

Still, I’m embarrassed to admit that I applied the work ethic to play time with my niece and nephew for the first several years of their lives. When I agreed to "play," I felt it necessary to turn the activity into a learning experience for them, so I wouldn’t feel like I was wasting time. Rolling balls back and forth to each other on the floor improved their hand-eye coordination, I reasoned. Building blocks helped their spatial-relationship skills. Running around in circles in the yard was a chance to promote aerobic fitness and joint strength.

One day, Ben decided it was time to conquer the back-yard slide. A good trust-building exercise, I thought. So, with me spotting (he forbade me to help him), he climbed the ladder and sat down at the top of the slide. I began to crouch into child-catching position. Before I was in place, however, Ben launched himself down the slide, careening flat on his back like a little greased pig. He hit me square in the chest with his diapered butt, knocking me off my feet and flat on my back in a muddy patch of matted grass. We lay there for a second catching our breath.

"Again!" he finally squeaked. "Again! That was fun!" The kid was right. It was fun — and nothing more. My God, I thought, I’m playing. I hadn’t developed a new skill. I wasn’t more fit or athletically nimble, and neither was he. I was lying on my back in mud, and my mind was completely blank except for wondering how fast Ben would come down if we wet the slide a little bit. We were out there for an hour. I didn’t teach and he didn’t learn, but we did laugh.

I’ve tried to spend more time doing nothing since that day. It hasn’t been easy learning to let myself play without some higher purpose. I find it hard to sit still and just listen to music. I feel naked if I ride my bike without a heart-rate monitor. A day at the beach still requires at least some reading material, but I try to keep it as mindless as possible. I can still hear a little clock ticking in the background whenever I try to play, urging me not to dawdle. The trick to silencing that clock is realizing that playing is not wasting precious time. It’s spending it.

Kris Frieswick can be reached at k.frieswick@verizon.net