Tales from the Land of Boring

It was one of those perfect autumn days today — crisp, bright, and too beautiful to go inside. After a long walk through the woods near the school and a couple of hours of uninterrupted play, we all reached that familiar place of tired happiness. So out came the giant mat.

“Story time!” I called.

No need to say it twice. Lunch boxes appeared, water bottles dropped, and a tangle of happy, dirt smudged faces gathered close. But before the first story could begin, there was business to discuss. Playground business.

Who got too many turns.
Who didn’t get enough.
Who may or may not have pushed who off a log.

These are some of my favorite kinds of conversations at school. The ones where fairness meets feeling, and everyone practices the art of being together. They’re rich with learning, the kind that doesn’t fit neatly into a lesson plan. At this point in the year, the kids trust the space we’ve built. My job is mostly to listen, to help them name what they already know about being in community. They speak up, they listen, and everyone’s voice is heard before we move on.

This is just nature taking its course. There’s a deep human need to process and understand the details of living with others. It just needs a bit of space and attention from the adults.

Once all hearts were mended and stories of injustice resolved, it was time for the real stories.

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After mornings like this, I can usually count on long attention spans. So I went big with six books. We paused often within each story to talk about what the characters were learning — how they handled frustration, what it means to be kind or brave. Story time has a way of turning into life study for us all, and I’m all for it. The discussions in between are the best part.

By the end of the sixth story, though, they still weren’t done. Then came the chant:
“Land of Boring! Land of Boring!”

About twenty years ago, in a moment just like this, I made up The Land of Boring on the spot. Stories about absolutely nothing… or maybe about absolutely everything. I did it just to be silly. I figured the kids would boo or groan. Instead, they loved it. They wanted more. And they’ve been asking for it ever since. One of many such traditions around here that began by accident and never went away.

The concept is simple: take something totally ordinary and tell it as though it’s the most dramatic adventure ever told. Speak slowly. Add long, thoughtful pauses. Include your wandering thoughts, your distractions, your little inner dialogues. (Preschool appropriate, of course.)

Today’s tale was The Making of My Morning Tea.

It was a cool, rainy morning as I wandered slowly into the kitchen still half dreaming. I was on my way to make tea when a small bird outside the window caught my eye. It hovered near the feeder, tilting its head as if watching me back.

I paused.
We regarded each other for a moment.

But the mission of tea was at hand, so I carried on one slow, purposeful step at a time.

I reached for the kettle and noticed a small ache in my back, a reminder to do yoga later. As the pot filled, my mind began to wander: the day ahead, a friend who was struggling, the tools I forgot to put away yesterday. Before I knew it, the water was overflowing.

I laughed, poured a little out, and gently set the pot on the stove.

The water seemed to take its sweet time coming to a boil. Finally, the whistle. The tea bag tore — riiiiiip! — a moment of pure drama. And then the pour! The audience gasped.

And then, at last, after all that suspense and stillness, came the first sip.

A long pause.
A sigh.
Complete satisfaction.

Applause. Then the inevitable chorus: “Tell another!”

What I think they love most isn’t just the silliness. This is the kind of presence they inhabit and always looking to see if we are there with them. Kids can sense when an adult is truly here — not just nearby, but with them. When they laugh and ask for more, what they’re really saying is, We see you. Stay here with us.

I’ve started carrying this practice into my own days. Washing dishes becomes an epic of scrubbing and reflection. Folding laundry turns into a quiet meditation. Even driving to town becomes a slow, narrated story from the Land of Boring. It’s oddly grounding — a gentle rebellion against the pace of the world.

Somewhere along the way, I realized these stories had become more than school fun. They’d become part of my own self care. A way to steady myself when the day feels too full, to breathe, to remember that simple things done with attention are enough. Narrating them, even silently, slows the mind. It softens the noise. It reminds me to slow down and move through the day with a little more curiosity and kindness — toward myself, toward the moment, toward everything.

I recently told a boring tale to my partner about getting out of bed and coming down the stairs in the morning. She listened quietly and said, “Can you tell another?”

That’s when I realized these tales aren’t boring at all.

They’re invitations to slow down, to notice, to remember that life isn’t hiding in the next big thing. It’s right here, in the small, quiet details we usually rush past.

Maybe that’s the real magic of being with children in how the lessons move both ways. The kids remind me, again and again, how presence can transform even the smallest moment into something meaningful. They invite me to slow down, to notice, to play my way back into awareness. In that sense, the Land of Boring isn’t boring at all. It’s a shared story — one we keep telling each other about what it means to be fully here, fully alive, right now.

Much Love!

The Mad Preschool Teacher(He/Him)