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Fostering creativity in children ✨ NASA study & research ✓ Loose parts & materials ✓ Practical tips for parents ✓
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Does this sound familiar? Your child sits in front of an expensive toy – and instead plays enthusiastically with the cardboard box it came in. Or they transform three cushions and a blanket into a pirate ship and sail through imaginary seas for hours on end.
These moments reveal what children naturally possess: boundless imagination and the ability to create something special from the simplest of things. As parents, we often wonder how best to support this creativity – without inadvertently stifling it through well-meaning interventions.
This guide offers you practical tools. You'll discover why boredom can sometimes be the best playmate, which materials truly spark the imagination, and how to support your child without taking over their play. We draw on insights from developmental psychology and proven pedagogical approaches such as Montessori and Reggio Emilia.
Because creativity is so much more than painting and crafts – it's the ability to solve problems, develop one's own ideas, and explore the world with curiosity. And the wonderful thing is: every child already carries this potential within them.
When we think of creative children, many of us immediately picture colourful images: little hands covered in finger paint, glitter scattered across the kitchen table, handmade Mother's Day cards. Yet creativity is so much more than this – and it often reveals itself precisely where we least expect it.
Picture this: your two-year-old wants to reach the biscuit tin on the worktop. She's too small to reach it. So she pushes a stool across, climbs up – and when that's still not quite enough, she stacks a thick book on top. Is this creativity? Absolutely. She's identified a problem, worked through various solutions, and developed a strategy that works.
This is precisely what developmental psychologists mean by creativity: the ability to find new approaches – approaches that are new to the child themselves. It needn't be a world-changing invention. The four-year-old who discovers that his building block also works as a telephone is thinking just as creatively as the engineer designing a new bridge construction.
What does it take for this kind of thinking to flourish? Research from developmental psychology shows that three factors work together:
A flexible mind: The ability to think laterally and not give up at the first attempted solution. Children who try out different possibilities are exercising precisely this mental agility.
A courageous attitude: Creativity requires a touch of daring. The courage to try something that might not work. Children who are allowed to venture into the unknown develop this openness quite naturally.
A secure environment: Nobody enjoys experimenting when mistakes are punished. Creativity flourishes where children feel safe – where a spilt pot of paint isn't a drama, but simply leaves an interesting pattern on the table.
This deserves a closer look, because not everything that appears to be a creative activity actually fosters creative thinking.
You know those craft kits where children glue pre-cut pieces together following instructions? At the end, twenty children are holding twenty identical butterflies. This certainly develops important skills – fine motor control, concentration, following steps. But it's essentially reproduction: the outcome is predetermined from the start.
True creativity begins where the ending is open. When you give your child paper, glue, feathers and fabric scraps instead of a craft kit and say: "Let's see what emerges" – then anything can happen. A bird, a spaceship, or something entirely unnameable that only your child understands. And that's precisely the point.
Table 1: Reproduction vs. Creativity
Both types of activities have their place. But if we want to nurture creativity, we should consciously create more space for those open-ended moments.
Perhaps you've wondered why young children can leap so effortlessly between ideas. One moment the stick is a sword, the next it's a guitar, then a baby that needs putting to bed. This apparent chaos has a reason – and it lies in the particular way children's brains work.
In the first six years of your child's life, something remarkable happens inside their head: with every new experience, connections form between nerve cells – tiny bridges across which information flows. The more your child experiences, the denser this network becomes.
Imagine your child playing with mud in the garden. At that moment, their brain is working at full capacity: feeling the cool, squelchy mass between their fingers. Smelling the damp earth. Keeping their balance whilst crouching down. And perhaps telling a story about a bear baking a cake. All these areas – touch, smell, movement, language, imagination – become active simultaneously and begin communicating with one another.
This is precisely the fertile ground for creativity: a brain in which many different areas are well connected. The more varied the experiences in these early years, the more connections form – and the more flexibly your child will be able to think later on.
Neuroscientists have discovered that creative thinking requires the interplay of various brain networks. Particularly important is the so-called "default mode network," which becomes active when we daydream, muse to ourselves, or gaze absent-mindedly out of the window.
Sounds unproductive? It isn't. In these quiet moments, new ideas emerge, unusual connections form, creative insights spark. The brain is sorting things in the background, trying out links, playing with possibilities.
In children, this network is particularly active – hence their "wild" associations, their ideas that seem to come from nowhere. The catch: this network needs calm to do its work. Constant external stimulation – screens, background noise, a packed schedule – prevents daydreaming from happening at all.
The good news: you don't need to be a neuroscientist to help your child. Two simple principles are enough:
Variety rather than perfection: Your child doesn't need expensive enrichment programmes. They need diverse experiences – squelching in mud, climbing, listening to music, inventing stories, playing with other children. Every new experience strengthens the network in their brain.
Pauses rather than programmes: Leave gaps in the day. Moments when nothing is happening. When your child can gaze out of the window, hum to themselves, or seemingly "do nothing." That's precisely when the creative brain is working hardest.
"My child just isn't the creative type." One hears this often – from parents who believe creativity is like blue eyes or freckles: you either have it or you don't.
Research tells an entirely different story. And it's rather surprising.
In 1968, researcher George Land received an unusual commission: he was to develop a test for NASA to identify particularly creative engineers – people who could not only solve problems but invent entirely new approaches.
The test worked well. But then Land had an idea: what would happen if he gave the same test to young children?
He tested 1,600 children aged four to five. The results were so astonishing that he continued to follow the children over the years. Here are the figures:
Table 2: Results of the George Land study
Let that sink in: 98 percent of all five-year-olds think at the level of creativity that NASA seeks in its best engineers. Among adults, it's just two percent.
Land's conclusion was uncomfortable: we aren't born uncreative – we're made uncreative. Somewhere on the journey from nursery to adulthood, most people learn to suppress their creative impulses.
How does this happen? Through well-meaning corrections ("That doesn't look like a dog"), through systems that recognise only one correct answer, through pressure to fit in rather than stand out. Children quickly learn that "thinking differently" is risky – and stop doing it.
Other studies confirm this trend. Since the 1990s, researchers have observed that children's creativity scores are measurably declining – even as their intelligence scores rise. More knowledge, less originality.
These figures aren't cause for alarm, but for hope. Because they mean: your child is already creative. They bring this ability into the world – just as they bring the ability to walk or speak.
Your task isn't to add creativity. Your task is to preserve it.
This succeeds when children have spaces where there's no right or wrong. Where wild ideas are welcome. Where the process matters, not the outcome. Whether at home around the kitchen table or in a nursery that follows these principles – the environment makes all the difference.
Imagine you ask your child: "What could you do with an empty shoebox?" An adult might think: store shoes. Sort odds and ends. Put it in the recycling.
A four-year-old? They see a bed for teddy, a racing car, a treasure chest, a knight's helmet, an aquarium for invisible fish, a garage, a prison for naughty Lego figures...
Welcome to the world of boundless thinking.
This way of thinking – wild, associative, with no regard for logic – is called divergent thinking. The term comes from the way thoughts run off in all directions (diverge), rather than heading towards a single point.
In divergent mode, there's no right or wrong. Only possibilities. The more, the better. The wilder, the more welcome.
Children are masters of this mode. Try asking: "What can you do with a paperclip?" Adults come up with three or four ideas. Children? A necklace, a fishing hook for elves, a skeleton for a plasticine figure, a tiny picture frame, a lock-pick for dolls' house burglars... They only stop when you stop them.
The counterpart is convergent thinking – here thoughts run together (converge) towards the one correct solution. It's logical, evaluative, focused.
"What was the paperclip invented for?" – "To hold paper together." Full stop. One question, one answer.
This type of thinking is important too. We need it to select the best idea from a hundred options. To check whether a plan will work. To solve maths problems and understand rules.
Both thinking modes have their place. True creativity actually emerges precisely in the interplay between them: first divergently gathering many ideas, then convergently selecting and implementing the most promising one.
The problem is that children are pushed into convergent thinking far too early. "The car has to be red." "The sky belongs at the top." "That doesn't look like a house." Each of these well-meaning corrections trains the child out of thinking freely.
Sunday lunchtime. The meal has been cleared away, rain patters against the windows. And then it comes, that phrase: "Mummy, I'm sooo bored!" Most parents know the impulse that follows: quickly offer something. Suggest a game. Fetch the tablet. Anything to stop that whingey discomfort. But what if that's precisely the wrong move?
Boredom feels uncomfortable, for children and adults alike. It signals: "This isn't enough for me. I need something else." And precisely this small pressure is valuable. It's the engine that fires up the brain and says: well then, invent something yourself.
When we immediately fill this moment with entertainment – with a video, a suggestion, an activity – we rob the child of the chance to become active themselves. We extinguish the fire before it can even ignite.
Remember the default mode network from the chapter on the brain? It becomes active when we daydream, muse to ourselves, stare absent-mindedly into space. Neuroscientists call it the Default Mode Network – and it's the birthplace of creative ideas.
Studies reveal something fascinating: people who had spent a while being bored before tackling a creative task came up with significantly more original solutions than those who started immediately. The boredom had, so to speak, "warmed up" their brain – it had already begun playing with possibilities in the background.
It works exactly the same way with children. The first ten minutes after "I'm bored" are often tedious. But then something happens: the child begins building a den with the sofa cushions. Or digs out the forgotten box of marbles. Or lies on their back inventing stories about the cracks in the ceiling.
This self-initiated play – specialists sometimes call it "deep play" – is often the richest and most creative of all. But it needs this run-up time.
This is easier said than done, especially when the whinging grates. A few thoughts that might help:
Acknowledge the feeling without solving it: "I understand you're bored right now. That's a rotten feeling." Full stop. No "but." No suggestions. Simply be present and wait.
Don't use screens as a dummy: Tablets and television fill the vacuum instantly – but they prevent the child from experiencing what it's like to free themselves from boredom. That "I found something to do after all" is an important sense of achievement.
Give it time: It usually takes 15 to 20 minutes before something of their own grows from the boredom. That can feel like a long time. But it's worth it.
Have faith: Your child has everything they need to occupy themselves. They may simply have forgotten, because we adults have become so adept at filling every gap.
Does this sound familiar? You enter a room and immediately feel at ease. Or ill at ease. Welcomed or rebuffed. Calm or unsettled. Rooms speak to us – even without uttering a word.
For children, this effect is far more powerful still. A well-designed space can invite a child to be active without an adult needing to say anything. It whispers: "There's something to discover here. You're allowed to touch things here. There's room for your ideas here."
In Reggio Emilia pedagogy, an approach from northern Italy, the space is therefore called the "third educator" – equal in status to parents and practitioners. Not a bad idea: after all, the space is always there, even when we're busy with something else.
You don't need an architecture degree or a Pinterest-perfect children's room. It's often small things that make the difference:
Materials stored in closed cupboards or on high shelves practically don't exist for small children. What they can't see and can't reach doesn't inspire them. Open shelving at the child's eye level, on the other hand, says: "Help yourself. This is for you."
This needn't apply to the whole house – one corner is enough. A low shelf in the living room with a few selected materials that your child may take at any time.
Children respond to beauty, just as we do. A wicker basket with wooden blocks invites differently than an overflowing plastic crate where everything lies jumbled together. A few pencils in an attractive pot, a stack of paper beside it – this is already an "invitation to play," as educators call it.
It's not about perfection or Instagram aesthetics. It's about clarity: the child should see at a glance what's there and what they might do with it.
Natural light changes everything. Where possible, place creative materials near a window. A simple mirror behind the building corner makes towers appear twice as tall and makes construction more exciting. A light box (simple, inexpensive versions are available) transforms translucent materials into magical objects.
This point is often underestimated. If the knight's castle has to be tidied away every evening because the dining table is needed, it can never grow beyond itself. Creativity sometimes needs days, not hours.
Perhaps there's a corner where a project may remain for a week. Perhaps a board where modelling clay figures can dry undisturbed. These "unfinished zones" signal: your work matters. You can carry on tomorrow.
A final thought on designing spaces: too many toys overwhelm. Studies show that children play more creatively and with greater persistence when they have less choice. It can be worth rotating regularly – putting away some toys and swapping them for others after a few weeks. The "new" old toy is then often rediscovered with fresh enthusiasm.
Remember the beginning of this article? The child who prefers the expensive cardboard box to the toy inside it? There's more behind this than childish stubbornness. There's a principle that a British architect recognised as far back as 1971.
Simon Nicholson called it the "Theory of Loose Parts." His observation was simple: the more moveable, changeable, combinable things there are in an environment, the more creative the people within it become – whether children or adults.
Look at a typical toy car. It's beautifully designed, perhaps even has sound effects and flashing lights. But what can it be? A car. Perhaps, with a bit of imagination, a spaceship on wheels. That's it.
Now look at a stick. The same stick can be:
The stick has no predetermined purpose – and that's precisely what makes it so valuable. It becomes whatever the child needs at that moment. Educators call such materials "open" or "open-ended": they don't dictate what should happen with them.
The lovely thing about loose parts: you already have most of them at home, can find them in nature, or can collect them for free. Here's an overview for inspiration:
Table 3: Loose parts categories
You don't need to offer everything at once. Start small: a bowl of conkers and a few cups. A basket of cloths in various sizes. A box of cardboard and tape.
Observe what happens. Probably more than you expect.
With children under three, particular caution applies: anything that fits through a toilet roll tube is a potential choking hazard. For the youngest children, large loose parts are suitable – cloths, wooden discs, wooden spoons, large tins, baskets for filling and emptying.
As children grow older, the collection can grow too – and with it, the possibilities.
Scene 1: Twenty children sit at tables. In front of each lies a set: a pre-drawn Father Christmas, red and white paper pieces, a glue stick. The practitioner shows where each piece should be stuck. After thirty minutes, twenty identical Father Christmases hang on the wall. The parents are delighted.
Scene 2: Twenty children sit at tables. In the middle stand bowls of blue and white paint, sponges, glitter, cotton wool balls. The practitioner says: "What does winter feel like to you?" After thirty minutes, twenty completely different works hang on the wall. One shows wild blue swirls (a snowstorm), one is thickly covered with white paint (an ice cave), one has a single cotton wool dot in the corner (the last snow of spring). Some parents wonder what exactly they're looking at.
Which scene nurtures creativity?
The first scene is what educators call "product art": the outcome is fixed from the start. There's an ideal image in the adult's head, and the child's task is to reproduce it. Deviations are corrected. "The beard goes at the bottom, sweetheart."
What does the child learn? Fine motor skills, yes. Following instructions, certainly. But also: there's a correct solution, and the adult knows it. My own ideas don't count.
This isn't inherently bad – it has its place. But it has little to do with creativity.
The second scene shows "process art": there's no predetermined outcome. The child explores, experiments, makes their own decisions. How much paint shall I use? What happens if I press the sponge really hard? What does glitter look like on wet paint?
The finished picture is almost incidental – a by-product of the experience. What matters is what happens inside the child's head: they make hundreds of small decisions. They experience how materials behave. They express something that belongs only to them. At the end, they hold a piece of work in their hands and know: I made this. Nobody else would have made it quite like this.
This feeling – psychologists call it self-efficacy – is one of the most important building blocks for healthy self-confidence.
Speaking of which: when your child proudly shows you a picture, you face a small but important choice.
The instinctive question many adults ask is: "Oh, lovely! What is it?"
The problem: the question implies that the picture must represent something recognisable. That there's a correct content the child must explain. Some children – particularly those who work abstractly or in a process-oriented way – falter. They had no idea it was supposed to "be" something.
Try instead:
This kind of comment shows genuine interest without judging. It invites the child to share their own story – or not. And it signals: the process mattered, not just the outcome.
It's a perfectly ordinary moment: your child sits on the floor trying to build a tower from building blocks. It grows taller, wobbles, falls down. Again. Wobbles, falls down. You watch the frustration growing on your child's face.
What do you do?
If you're like most parents, your fingers are itching. You can see the foundation is too narrow. One quick intervention and the tower would stand. Wouldn't that be helpful?
Perhaps. But perhaps not.
The Russian psychologist Lev Vygotsky discovered something important about how children learn: the most exciting learning moments don't happen where a child can already do something. Nor where something lies completely beyond their reach. But in the zone between – where, with a little support, they can take one step further.
The key word is: a little.
Back to the wobbling tower. Here are two possibilities:
You take over: "Wait, I'll show you. You need to use wider blocks at the bottom." You build the foundation. The tower stands. Problem solved.
What your child learns: when things get difficult, someone else does it for me.
You accompany: "Hmm, it always wobbles in the same place, doesn't it? What do you think might be causing that?" Perhaps a hint: "Look how narrow it is at the bottom and how wide at the top..." Then you wait.
What your child learns: I can solve problems myself. I just need to think.
The second path is more demanding. It takes longer. It requires you to keep your own hands still and tolerate something not going perfectly. But it gives your child something priceless: the experience of having managed it themselves.
Good accompaniment doesn't begin with action, but with watching. What is your child actually doing right now? Not what should they be doing – what are they actually doing?
Perhaps they're not building a tower in order to have a tower. Perhaps they're exploring how things fall. Perhaps they're enjoying the sound when everything crashes down. Perhaps they're secretly sorting the blocks by colour.
When we intervene too quickly, we may be interrupting something we haven't even understood. A few minutes of quiet observation can show us what's truly occupying the child – and whether they even want our help.
Children observe us more closely than we'd like. They see how we react when something goes wrong. And they learn from it.
If you curse whilst crafting together because the glue won't hold – your child learns: mistakes are annoying. Things should work first time.
If instead you say: "Oh, that's not sticking. Interesting. What could we do differently?" – your child learns: mistakes are part of it. They're not an ending, but a beginning.
This attitude cannot be preached. It can only be lived. Every time you respond calmly to your own small failure, you show your child: this is how it's done. This is how you stay curious, even when not everything works out.
Perhaps this image helps: imagine you were not your child's teacher, but their gardener. A gardener doesn't pull on plants to make them grow faster. They provide good soil, enough light, sufficient water – and then they step back and let growth happen.
Your task is to create the conditions. The growing is something your child does themselves.
Your child comes running towards you, a sheet of paper in hand, paint on their fingers, pride on their face. "Look, Mummy! Look, Daddy!"
This moment repeats itself hundreds of times throughout a childhood. And each time, you have a small but important choice: how do you respond?
Most of us instinctively reach for praise. "Wow, brilliant!" "Beautiful!" "You're a real artist!"
It feels right. We want to encourage our child, strengthen their self-confidence. What could possibly be wrong with that?
Imagine you show a friend a photo from your weekend trip. She glances at it briefly and says: "Brilliant!" Then she turns back to her phone.
How does that feel? Probably not particularly valued. The praise came too quickly, too automatically. It really only said: "I've registered that you're showing me something."
Children sense this just as keenly. They notice whether we're truly looking or whether our "Brilliant!" is a polite shortcut. Some children – particularly sensitive ones – even begin to mistrust the praise. If everything is "brilliant," nothing is special any more.
More problematic still: blanket praise evaluates the outcome, not the process. "You're a great artist!" puts the child under pressure to be a "great artist" again next time. What if the next picture isn't as good? Was I a fraud then?
There's an alternative that researchers call "descriptive feedback." The idea is simple: instead of evaluating, you describe what you see. It sounds unspectacular, but the effect is remarkable.
Instead of: "Lovely picture!"
Try: "You've painted the whole background blue. And here in the corner there are lots of little red dots. It looks as though it's moving."
What happens? Your child realises: this person has really looked. They've noticed details. They're taking my work seriously.
Children often then begin telling you about it of their own accord. "Yes, it's a storm! And the red dots are lightning!" Descriptive feedback opens a conversation, whilst the quick "Brilliant!" tends to close it.
A few more examples:
Alongside descriptive feedback, there's a second tool: open questions. These are questions that can't be answered with yes or no – questions that invite thinking and further exploration.
"What would happen if you painted another layer over this?"
"How did you manage to make this shape?"
"What does this remind you of?"
"What else might you add, if you wanted to?"
Such questions have no ulterior motive. They don't want to hear anything specific. They show genuine curiosity – and they invite the child to think about their own work. This strengthens not only creativity but also the ability to reflect on one's own decisions.
Descriptive feedback may feel strange at first. We're so accustomed to evaluating – beautiful, ugly, good, bad – that pure description feels like a foreign language.
Try it consciously this week: when your child shows you something, take a brief breath, really look, and describe a detail that strikes you. No judgement, just observation.
You'll be surprised what conversations develop from it.
Creativity looks completely different in a one-year-old than in a five-year-old. What parents sometimes perceive as "chaos" or "pointless play" is often precisely what the child needs at their stage of development. A brief guide through the early years.
Imagine you'd landed on an alien planet. Everything is new. You don't know whether things are hard or soft, cold or warm, whether they make sounds when dropped, whether they're edible or not.
That's roughly how the world feels to a baby and toddler. At this stage, your child is an explorer in the truest sense. They want to know: what does this feel like? What happens when I squeeze, throw, put it in my mouth? The "creativity" of this age lies in tireless experimentation with the properties of materials.
What helps now:
A basket of safe everyday objects to explore – a wooden spoon, a metal lid, a piece of fabric, an empty plastic bottle. No toys, just things with different surfaces, weights and sounds. Specialists call this "heuristic play," but really it's simply: stuff to handle.
Sensory trays: a shallow container with water, rice, sand or conkers for little hands to rummage through.
Edible paints: yoghurt with food colouring or puréed berries on the highchair tray. Yes, it will be messy. But your child experiences colour with hands, mouth and eyes simultaneously – and you needn't worry if something ends up in their mouth.
At some point, something wonderful happens: a wooden block is suddenly no longer just a wooden block. It's a telephone. Or a car. Or a piece of cake. Welcome to symbolic play.
During this phase, your child discovers that things can stand for other things – the foundation for language, mathematics and abstract thinking. When your three-year-old speaks earnestly into a banana and says "Yes, I'll be there in a moment," they're exercising their brain at the highest level.
What helps now:
A dressing-up box – but not with ready-made costumes. Cloths, hats, old shirts, a discarded belt. The less predetermined, the more can emerge: a cloth is a cape today, a baby sling tomorrow, a tent the day after.
Play dough and clay: hands are growing stronger, and your child begins thinking three-dimensionally. Nothing recognisable needs to emerge – the squelching and shaping is the point.
Building dens: two chairs and a blanket transform the living room into another world. These self-built spaces give children a sense of control and security at the same time.
Now things become more complex. Your child thinks ahead, plans, changes plans, begins collaborating with others. Projects grow bigger and last longer. Where once a tower was built and knocked down in five minutes, now perhaps a city emerges that grows over days.
What helps now:
Real tools: under supervision, hammering and sawing are now allowed. Working with "proper" materials gives children a deep sense of competence. Children's workbenches and blunt plastic hammers cannot replace this.
Project work spanning several days: a city made of cardboard boxes that gains a new building each day. A ship from wood scraps that's worked on for a week. Perseverance grows with the task.
Dictated stories: your child draws a picture and tells a story about it. You write the words beside it. This is how first "books" emerge – and your child experiences that their thoughts are important enough to be recorded.
Inventing rules together: many children at this age begin developing their own games with their own rules. Let them explain the rules to you, even when they keep changing. The inventing is the game.
Remember the beginning of this article? The child who prefers the expensive cardboard box to the toy inside. The cushions that become a pirate ship. The seemingly endless questions, the wild ideas, the stories that needn't make sense.
None of this is a phase children should "grow out of." It's a treasure they bring into the world – one we adults all too often bury unintentionally.
The research is clear: 98 percent of all five-year-olds think creatively at genius level. Among adults, it's two percent. Somewhere in between, most people learn to censor their ideas before they're even spoken. "That's silly." "That won't work." "That's not how it's done."
The good news: you can make the difference.
Not through expensive enrichment programmes or perfectly designed children's rooms. But through what you already know:
Allow time. The packed schedule is creativity's greatest enemy. Children need empty hours in which boredom can transform into inventiveness.
Provide materials. Fewer finished toys, more open-ended things. Cardboard boxes, sticks, cloths, stones. Anything that can be a hundred things, rather than just one.
Look differently. Don't correct the blue tree. Don't judge the unfinished work. Instead, describe, ask, marvel.
Celebrate mistakes. Or at least accept them calmly. Every "Oh, that didn't work – how interesting!" is a lesson in courage and curiosity.
Step back. Less explaining, more observing. Less directing, more enabling. Trust that your child will find their way.
Creativity isn't a bonus, a nice extra alongside the "important" skills. In a world that's changing faster than ever before, it may be the most important skill of all: the ability to think new thoughts, to solve problems nobody has solved yet, and to reinvent oneself again and again.
Your child already possesses this ability. Your task isn't to add it. Your task is to preserve it.
And that doesn't begin tomorrow. It begins with the next picture proudly thrust towards you. With the next "boring" hour you don't fill. With the next cardboard box that doesn't end up in the recycling.
Every day offers a hundred small opportunities. Make use of a few of them.
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