Very quickly, it became a favorite, though I’m not sure how. The name’s origin was simple enough: unable to say “jacket,” L turned it into a shorter “jack.” The rest, though, is mystery.
Jack came to be for L what blankets and teddies are for other toddlers: her grounding. She had to have it with her, and when she was not wearing it (which was rare, if she had her way, even in summer), she was carrying it. Getting to her to agree to hang it in the closet was a Herculean task, and we simply decided that there was no reason why it should hang in the closet if it caused much turmoil in her life.
One parting was inevitable, though, and it happened soon enough. She outgrew it, and we introduced a new jack. She liked the new jack just as much as the old one, and quickly developed the same bond. Red jack was stowed away and quickly forgotten.
Until K decided to do some rearranging and repacking. And then, this morning, L discovered red jack. The original jack, the mother of all jacks.
Fast as her little increasingly nimble fingers could manage, she unzipped the plastic storage back that held jack, pulled it out, and held it close and tight, crying, “Jack!” as if she’d encountered a friend she hadn’t seen since school days.
“Oh, no, sweetie,” I said. “This jack is entirely too small.”
The prospect of losing jack a second time — “I’ve been looking everywhere for you” her babbling seemed to say — was too much for her. L fell in the floor, distraught and screaming.
“But you have another jack,” I reminded her. “Do you want to get it?”
The fussing quickly subsided and she meekly answered, “Tak.”
That jack was held close for the rest of the morning.
I do this on a daily basis: in my teaching, with my interpersonal skills, in my parenting. The old seems to be so comfortable that, even when something new is working better, the old slips up and takes hold before I know it.
Perhaps L’s rediscovery of the original jack suggests a goal for the year: to be more conscious about slipping into old, comfortable habits.