Perhaps it was because fine motor skills have vexed him so much. Buttons, zips, and buckles still torment him after many years of therapy. He pulls his pants on already done-up, as I’ve left them hanging clean in his closet. He hates belts, pulls his shoes on already tied, rarely eats with a fork. Yet ironically, Noah adores the tiniest of toys. Legos are among his favorite – though we could have saved ourselves untold sums if we’d caught on earlier to the fact that Noah likes ONLY the characters from the kits. Only the tiny people with their molded hair and little weapons. And Star Wars figurines. Those are a particular favorite, with their articulated limbs and their tiny hands and laughably small weaponry. Take this light saber, for example. I’ve seen thicker dental floss.
Noah lives his life on a grand scale – everything about him is loud, physical, dramatic, and charismatic. But his toys are tiny. He brings his imagination down, close to him. He lives this part of his world on a miniature scale, perhaps to give him a sense of control over the rest of the bigness in his life, and all the attendant chaos. Maybe it’s because mastery of fine motor skills is lots more fun when you can do it with an ewok the size of a quarter.
I wonder what Noah sees in tiny things. Maybe a beauty the rest of us miss. Or an opportunity to close out distractions and focus on the moment at hand. Because really, aren’t the little things sometimes the most important?