It’s just after 3:00pm.
The hallway outside the School Age Care (OSHC/OOSH) room is alive with the thud of school shoes and the rustle of bags. Their muffled chatter can be heard rippling through the walls, echoing through undercover spaces, voices tumbling over one another in a rush of excitement, carrying down the walkways like an echo of joy that always arrives before they do.
They reach the service door… and stop.
A line snakes out into the hall, each child and young person waiting for the iPad to wake up, load, and find their name. The educator holding it taps, scrolls, taps again. Jordan shifts from foot to foot, the strap of his backpack digging in, eyes scanning the room ahead.
He’s hungry and knows food will help him recharge. Afternoon tea isn’t out yet, and when it arrives there’ll be another wait... for an educator or a peer to serve him. Or maybe he’ll decide he’s not hungry at all, because today he’s picturing the oval and the first kick of the soccer ball.
His body is ready to move, full of energy at the end of his school day, eyes darting toward the oval and the promise of play.
But the group can’t go yet.
They're waiting for an educator to give the go-ahead... and right now, every educator is tied up, supporting someone, stretched across the needs that arrive all at once. Sometimes the wait is 15 minutes. Sometimes it’s closer to half an hour. Jordan’s body urging him to run, he’s trying to hold his energy in check, ready to spring into action the moment the opportunity comes.
Across town, the morning sun filters through the glass doors of and early learning service. The low murmur of voices blends with the opening and closing of doors as families say goodbye. Near the bag storage, Mia clutches a plush rabbit, her mum already halfway to the car. The rabbit’s ear is damp from being chewed.
She steps toward the sandpit she loves, already picturing the first scoop of sand but the gate is closed. The outdoor area isn’t “open” yet. She waits near the door, holding her anticipation.
An educator greets her with a smile, then gently takes the hand of another child who has just arrived before slipping away to finish preparing the room. Mia drifts toward the art table, noticing the stacked paper, the brushes in their jar, the water yet to be poured. She pauses, chooses to wait, her eyes quietly following the rhythm of the preparations.
She thinks of the blocks, but another educator is on the phone in that space. She pauses at the edge, unsure if she’s meant to go in.
Everywhere she turns, it’s not yet.
Not open, not ready, not available - yet.
Her body ready to dig, climb, move, choose... but for now, she stays close to her rabbit and takes in the cues around her.
Just after 8:00am, in a quiet suburban street, a car door shuts gently, followed by the sound of small feet skipping up a garden path. The gate creaks open.
Eli, four and a half, knows this gate well. It leads to a space where stories unfold in small moments - not a centre, not a school, but someone’s home that has become a place for play, learning, and care.
He reaches the door and pauses, clutching a crumpled paper plane he folded in the car. He knows how to knock, but waits instead. There’s a hum of a vacuum inside, the faint smell of toast, and a giggle drifting in from the back room.
The door opens. His educator, Amira, smiles warmly, but her hands are full. A baby on one hip, a toddler tugging her shirt.
“Morning Eli! I’ll be with you in just a sec.”
He steps in slowly. His bag goes on its hook, but the room feels full. The baby needs a nappy change, the toddler is waiting for breakfast, and Eli - who has been imagining launching his paper plane across the hallway... isn’t quite sure where to be.
The floor cushions are stacked, blocks mid-way through being packed away. His favourite basket of animal figurines isn’t out yet.
He sits quietly by the bookshelf. He knows the rhythm of this space, but right now it’s in between beats.
His needs are small, yet important: a hello, a space to land, a moment of connection before the day begins.
These are the moments that can pass without our notice - the in-betweens. Not the vibrant reunions or cheerful goodbyes, but the pauses that shape how children and young people enter their day (or session).
Sometimes these pauses are neutral, even restful. Other times, they send quiet, unintended messages:
You’re here, but we’re not ready for you.
Please wait. Quietly. Again.
There’s no place for you just yet.
Children and young people pick up on these messages instantly. They notice in the way a space either leans toward them or holds them at arm’s length.
When we pause to look, we see how often these moments occur: Children lined up at the door while a room is being prepared; young people sitting together as a roll is marked before they can head outside; early arrivers staying near the door until an educator returns; groups waiting on the mat until “everyone is ready”, even when those already there could begin.
Some waiting is necessary for safety and care. Other waiting is simply inherited habits; moments that could be redesigned to offer choice, agency, or connection instead of stillness without purpose.
Back in School Age Care, an educator notices Jordan’s stance and the way he’s scanning the oval. She’s mid-sentence with another child but pauses.
There you are. I’ve been expecting you.
“Hey Jordan" she says, "a soccer group are already out there, want me to walk you over?”
His shoulders drop, just slightly, and his step quickens. Energy released.
In the early learning service, an educator arranging the art table catches sight of Mia lingering near the block area. Without stepping away, she calls gently, “Mia, I’m almost ready here. Want to help me pour the water for the brushes?”.
It’s not a command. It’s a bridge
Our Approved Learning frameworks remind us, transitions aren’t just about moving bodies from one place to another. They are cues about belonging, safety, and connection.
In the Phoenix Cups language, a warm, responsive transition can top up a child’s Safety Cup and Connection Cup before the day has truly begun. When rhythms are gentle, predictable, and tuned to the child’s pace, they offer an anchor. When they’re rushed, rigid, or shaped by convenience, they can quietly and unintentionally empty cups.
Rhythm isn’t a structure, it’s a signal.
When the flow of the day is predictable, warm, and responsive, children and young people step into it with confidence. In the fragments of hurried rhythms, readiness gathers in children’s and young people's hands, without a clear space to put it.
EYLF V2.0 and MTOP V2.0 invite us to think beyond routines and into relational rhythms; the subtle, lived patterns of our days that bend to meet children and young people’s needs, culture, pace, energy, and rights (Department of Education, 2022a; 2022b).
Educators already carry so much; compliance, safety, planning, documentation, daily tasks and demands. It’s impossible to have everything perfectly prepared. Responsiveness grows not from perfection preparation, it grows from presence. Sometimes it's about the ability to slightly pivot - ready to meet the moment, not just the plan.
In early learning, that might look like noticing a toddler’s eyes fixed on the sandpit gate and saying, “Let’s go open it together”, even as you finish greeting a family.
In school age care, it might be spotting a young person lingering at the edge and inviting them, “Want to help me set up the art table?”, offering a role and a welcome at the same time.
In family day care, it might be noticing a child hesitating near the entryway and saying, “Your dinosaurs are already stomping around the mat. They’ve been waiting for you,” turning a moment of uncertainty into a moment of welcome.
As adults, we already know what steady rhythms give us: a quiet moment before the rush, a checklist to feel grounded, a warm greeting from a colleague, space to breathe between tasks. If these things matter to us, it’s worth asking whether children and young people might need the same.
When we design rhythms that meet our needs, we’re better able to design them to meet theirs and vice versa.
Sometimes the shifts are small: a basket of board books by the door; naming what you notice, “I see your sketchbook, are you adding to your comic today?”; a favourite toy placed ready, as though someone truly has been waiting.
They might seem minor, but the message is powerful: You belong here. We’ve made space for you.
No one sets out to place a child in a holding pattern. These pauses emerge in the spaces between our intentions and what we’ve got planned. Yet they carry weight; shaping a child or young person’s sense of safety and belonging as surely as any planned experience.
When you notice a child waiting, there’s an invitation in that pause.
Is it filled with connection, or just containment?
Does it create a place for them, or simply keep them on the edge until the “real” part of the day begins?
Can you offer a choice, a role, or simply your presence?
The weight of waiting can be heavy. And in the hands of a responsive educator, even an unplanned pause can become something else entirely... a place where agency, anticipation, and connection meet.
We can ease the weight of waiting, turning the unseen moments within the pauses into invitations:
You’re seen.
You’re welcome here, you belong...
I’ve been expecting you.
Thoughtfully written by: Annette Johnson
Creatively and collaboratively edited by: Tara Hill