I've been meaning to jot down a few things. Here's one.
One thing I've noticed over & again is how strongly his small person reaches out, cries out, for the hard things. He wants: clasps, handles, edges, buckles, the metal or plastic part of anything. And it's always been this way. He yearns -- visibly -- for cords and things that can twist. He likes wooden blocks, plastic chain links, metal spoons, and a little purple carabiner we have. Things that crinkle and crack -- foils, plastic product clamshells, the paper jackets of books, and the hard backs of the books themselves. He loves the hard black lozenges that protrude from the front of the television and the VCR.
Everything soft, mushy, plush, and fuzzy pretty much holds no fascination for him.
How funny, then, the way we grownups give in so often to the impulse to give children soft things -- stuffed animals, blankets, towels, cushions, and pads. We give them these things because we like to project our own urge for softness onto them. Tiny children give us permission to be soft -- finally.
They are good-natured little creatures, and don't mind our predilections -- they simply ignore them.