Silly Putty Kids

My kids are Silly Putty. 

Today, as I reminisced about their early childhood, when they were Velcroing themselves to me at every turn, I realized that they aren't Velcro at all.

They're pink, rubbery, bouncey, and ... well ... silly. Silly Putty. 

They stretch without breaking, yet they "snap" when yanked quickly. At times, they bounce higher than a rubber ball. You can mold them into various forms - temporarily, anyway - and slow, gentle pressure can change their shape.

Like Silly Putty, they come in all shapes and hues, and they emerged all squishy from a little egg.

Each time I see them, they're a bit different ... different shape, different texture, just different - just a little.

They stick to me. Stick. Like. Glue.

They spread themselves out and attach themselves to me, and every time they connect with me I've imprinted a little of myself onto them. Sometimes it's exciting and colorful like the comics from the Sunday paper, and others it's simple boring words. 

Then they mix themselves all around again, and you can't tell where those tiny parts of me ended up. But they're in there somewhere.

And even though you can't see it easily, each time we connect, they leave a thin film on me. Over millions of connections, they rubbed off on me as well, becoming part of me, absorbed into my being.

Over time, as they've slowly, consistently picked up bits from me, from Dad, from each other, from their friends and relatives, and from the world around them, they've changed. Their color and texture - what makes them them - has been molded and shaped by the forces around them. But the heart of who they are was that pink, squishy, perfect blob.

One thing I know for sure ... my life has been immeasurably enhanced by three blobs of Silly Putty.