Untagged

A desperate wail echoed into the early evening hours.  This was no ordinary cry of pain or anger, but a soul wrenching howl of anguish and loss.  Tamara quickly ran from the bedroom to find our youngest son crumpling to the floor in the hallway.  He was on the edge of pure hysteria.

“What’s wrong,” she asked, trying to usher Gage away from the full scale breakdown he was approaching.  Amidst the sobbing and tears, she was able to decipher one word…‘Tag’.  Yes, the unthinkable had happened.  The washing instructions had completely torn away from one of his favorite blankets and now lay lifelessly on the floor.  Those of you who know Gage can understand what a tragedy this is.  If you don’t quite get it, you’ve probably not heard about his love of tags.

It took a good deal of time to calm his aching heart.  With great care, Tamara was finally able to convince him that she could sew it back on.

As I was telling this story in my LIfeGroup, one of the other guys mentioned that his oldest daughter has the exact opposite problem.  She has a fit if any of her clothes have a tag in them.  He said they have no idea what size any of her garments are, or what the washing instructions might be for them.  They have to cut the tags out of every one or she won’t wear them.  The suggestion was made that they need to collect all those tags and then we could sew them on a blanket for Gage.  I think it’s a great idea!  I can almost imagine the look of befuddlement and delight on his face at seeing an entire blanket ringed in tags!

In other tag related news, we may have an issue of hard feelings developing between Gage and his sister.  For the better part of five years, our dining room chairs have sat virtually unscathed as they silently performed their duty.  Haven has changed all of that.  Single handedly, she has ripped almost every single manufacturers tag from the bottom of these seats. 

The first time Gage came across this grisly sight, he did nothing short of panic.  “Sister’s got a tag,” he screamed, loud and long enough to hear from three rooms away.  By the time I got to the kitchen he was bouncing back and forth with tears streaming down his face.  He couldn’t understand how she would even want to do something so horrible to those precious, hallowed things.  Those two may always be at odds over their contrasting treatment of tags.  Only time will tell.

Tag, You're It

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.