Is my kid’s repetitive casual play a waste of time? What I learned as a teacher and mom
Last Tuesday, I was folding laundry in the living room while my 7-year-old, Jax, did his usual after-school thing. For three weeks straight, that thing has been sorting his Pokemon cards. Not playing with them, not battling his dad or his cousin—sorting. First by type, then by hit points, then by the color of the border, then by how much he likes the art on the back. My sister dropped by that afternoon, leaned against the couch watching him for five minutes, and whispered, “Isn’t that a waste of time? Shouldn’t you be getting him to do homework or read or something that matters?”
It’s the question I get at least once a week, as a 4th grade teacher and a mom. Parents pull me aside at conferences, or message me on class apps, asking the same thing about all sorts of kid habits: “My son spends all his free time drawing Minecraft creepers instead of doing extra math practice, is that a waste?” “My daughter re-reads the same three Junie B. Jones books over and over, why won’t she pick something new? Is that wasting her time?” I used to think that way too, when I first started teaching 12 years ago. I remember a 2nd grader I had back then, Leo, who would spend the entire recess every day digging the same hole in the far corner of the playground. The recess aide kept bugging me to redirect him, said it was a waste of time he could be spending playing tag or making friends. I tried, once. I walked over, knelt down, brushed a dirt leaf off my knee, and said “Hey Leo, want to go join the kickball game over there?” He looked up at me, dirt crusted on his cheek and under his nails, and said “I’m watching the ants move their nest. I’m counting how many eggs they carry. I have 127 so far.” I apologized for interrupting and walked away. That moment was the first time I started questioning the whole “waste of time” label we stick on kid activities that don’t look productive to us.
After my sister left that afternoon, I sat down on the rug next to Jax and asked him what he was sorting for this time, since he’d already gone through the entire stack twice that week. He held up a gap in the water-type section, tapped it with his finger, and said “I ordered a first edition Squirtle with my allowance, it’s coming Friday. I need to make sure the gap fits it exactly, no extra space. Then I’m counting how many holographic cards I have that don’t have scratches on the edges.” I watched him move one Charizard three times, adjusting how it sat next to its neighbor, so the edges lined up perfectly. I thought back to when I was 7, and I spent every weekend sorting my collection of drugstore lip balm tubes by scent, size, and the color of the cap. My mom always huffed about it, said I should be outside playing with the neighborhood kids instead of “fooling around with dead lip balm.” But I can still name every scent in order 30 years later, and my knack for organizing small, chaotic systems is why I can keep 28 students’ lesson plans and graded papers straight without a fancy paid app. It wasn’t a waste, even if it looked silly.
Over the years, I’ve come up with two simple, concrete checks I use to decide if a kid’s hobby is actually a waste of time, instead of just looking like it. First: Is it getting in the way of their basic needs? If they’re skipping meals to sort cards, failing every class because they can’t stop thinking about digging ant holes, or refusing to go to birthday parties because they’d rather re-read the same book, then it’s time to step in and set boundaries. Second: Can they tell you why they’re doing it, even if the reason sounds silly to you? If they can explain their system, or their goal, or what they like about it, it’s not a waste. The only time I’ve seen this kind of repetitive play become a problem is when it meets both those checks—interferes with daily life and they can’t explain why they’re doing it. That’s when it makes sense to talk to your pediatrician or the school counselor. Otherwise, it’s almost always just useful practice in disguise.
What most of us miss is that this “unproductive” play builds skills that structured activities often don’t. When Jax sorts his cards, he’s planning out a whole system, making dozens of tiny decisions, and problem-solving when he realizes he miscounted and has to rearrange three whole sections. He practices sustained focus for 45 minutes at a time, which is way longer than he’ll ever focus on a homework worksheet. Jax’s 2nd grade teacher sent home a note last month saying he was one of only three kids in the class who could finish a 20-minute independent art project without getting up five times to ask for help. I don’t think that’s from the 10 minutes of math homework we do every night. I think that’s from the three hours a week he spends rearranging his cards.
If you’re still itching to do something instead of just letting them play, the only step you need to take is join them for five minutes. Ask one specific question about what they’re doing—“What’s the first thing you sort by?” or “What’s your favorite one in this stack?” Don’t judge, don’t try to change the activity, don’t turn it into a forced learning lesson. I did that with Leo all those years ago, after he told me about the ant eggs, and I sat for two minutes and pointed out an ant carrying a really big egg I’d spotted. He ended up talking to me about what he’d learned for 10 minutes, which built his communication skills more than any forced share circle at school.
I still have days where I side-eye the card sorting. Last week, Jax got distracted mid-room-cleaning to sort a new stack of cards from a friend, and we ended up 15 minutes late for bedtime. I rolled my eyes and gently but firmly nudged him to put everything away. But I didn’t tell him it was a waste of time. I know that in 20 years, he won’t remember that 3rd grade multiplication worksheet I made him finish after school. But he might remember sorting his Pokemon cards, and how I didn’t make him stop just because it didn’t look productive to me. I still don’t have all the answers, and I still set boundaries when things go off track. But I don’t rush to call it a waste anymore.
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