When I was pregnant, I was fascinated by a particular phenomenon: little boys picking up sticks and whacking random things with it.
Girls, I argued, don't do that. I didn't see any rhyme or reason to picking up a stick and poking the ground. Why would a boy find that interesting?
Well, now I know.
As soon as Little Man was up on his feet outside, he had the uncanny ability to find a stick. With it, he was able to reach things previously out of his grasp. He could poke the car window or the leaves on a small-ish tree. Once he found his balance, he could use it to make a cool whooshing noise. And a stick can be used to test the squishiness of any surface. What's the difference in density between that patch of mud and the regular dirt? Poke it with a stick! The difference in scraping noises on concrete and brick path? Use a stick! The difference in softness between the pole on the swingset and Mommy's leg? Give it a good jab with a--uh oh.
There is a look of primitive happiness that comes over Little Man's face when he finds a stick that is just the right size and length. And when he finds that perfect one, he hangs on to it. The back of my car is littered with sticks he kept a firm grasp on throughout a playground trip.
Soon, those sticks with be makeshift swords and lightsabers. For now, they are exploratory tools, helping Little Man discover the world around him.
And yes--sometimes, just to carry around.
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