When you were little, did you have a favorite blanket you carried around? My wife had one she kept until she was nearly a teenager. I had one too, that I gave up when I was eight years old. It was soft and blue, and had a satin edge around it. I loved to take the corner of the shimmery material and rub it across my lips.
Gage got a double helping of the gene that makes you latch onto a blankie. He’s put his own little twist on our childhood habits, though. What’s important to him is the tag. Yes, that little piece of soft, white label that gives the washing instructions. That’s his comfort.
We noticed it at an early age, and probably encouraged it, in a way. My wife found a little book covered in tags at www.taggies.com and got it for him. We thought he’d be in love with all the brightly colored tags hanging off the soft book. It turns out, though; the only tag on it he cares about is the long white one with the washing instructions. There’s something to be said for consistency.
My parents went to New Zealand last year and brought him back a stuffed toy koala. When they bought it, they joked that they were getting him a tag with a koala attached. They clearly understand the depth of his obsession. Last Sunday, the boys spent the afternoon at their house. When it came time for nap, my mother gave him a soft blanket, but he immediately began howling about the lack of a tag on it. She had to pull a tee-shirt off the hanger and give to him so he could have a tag for naptime.
You see, the tag is crucial for slumber. It’s a powerful sedative that, as best I can tell, is applied by running it between the index and middle finger. I don’t understand how it works, but it does. Give that boy a tag, and if he gets still and strokes that satiny piece of material, he’ll be out in a matter of minutes.
There’s also some sort of rating system that he goes by. I don’t know what it’s based on, probably tag material, length, softness, who knows. On more than one occasion, he’s come up to me, offering a feel of the white label, proclaiming, “Das a good one!”
As a father, I can’t help but wonder how far to let this obsession go, and if I could possibly have any control over it if I tried. Will he give it up on his own? Do we need to step in and try to tone down his dependence on this…substance? Are we raising a tag-addict?
What if he ends up having to go to support group meetings someday because we didn’t step in and do something? I can see it now:
My Son: Hi. My name’s Gage.
Everyone else: Hi, Gage.
My Son: It’s been three weeks since I’ve used the tag.
Everyone claps.
I don’t want that for him. But at the same time, it’s silly to worry over something that may not even be a problem. Right now, we’re just taking limited steps. There are some solid rules that we abide by, such as, “Don’t rub the tag of your brother’s dirty underwear on your face.” In fact, all underwear tags are pretty much off limits.
We also try to avoid doing laundry within his earshot. Gage is our helper. He loves to help, no matter what the task. But, God bless him, his help isn’t always…helpful. He can turn loading the dryer from a thirty second process into a three minute procedure. Every item of clothing that comes out of the washer must have its tag inspected before it’s tossed in to dry.
For now, we’re not going to stress over it too much. I’m sure that, in the end, all will turn out fine, and we’ll look back and fondly remember the days when our little boy would drag his blanket around the house by its washing instructions.
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