Clutching

A few years ago, we had to quadruple our Hot Wheels collection because we, in a quirk of demographics, enrolled an extra large class of 2-year-old boys. We were forced to make the investment because so many of those boys desired to have a car clutched in each fist.

I've been thinking about writing this post for a few days. I'd assumed

that I didn't need to take any extra photos of kids clutching things

because, well, it's so prevalent I was certain that I'd already have plenty

of photos of the phenomenon. But I was wrong. I take a lot of pictures

of hands (in fact I take mostly pictures of hands) but I'm so focused on

what the children are "doing" that I didn't have any of a child simply

clutching something. At best I have these pictures in which a child

is showing me something, often while I'm trying to get a snapshot

of something else entirely. 

They all pick things up and carry them around, some more than others, but they all do it at some time or another. Sometimes it's a kind of treasured item, like with the Hot Wheels. In any given class there are always girls who have a stuffed animal or doll from the classroom collection that they clutch while moving from place to place, perhaps placing it carefully beside them while, say, making a painting, but picking it up again the moment their hands are free.

I'm not talking about those special comfort items from home, nor even about our classroom items being used as surrogate comfort items, although there is some of that. And I'm not even necessarily talking about special items, like cars or dolls. I'm thinking rather about a stage of play most 2-year-olds seem to go through in which clutching items is the main obvious feature of their play.

They arrive in class with this tendency, I see them in the world around me clutching mom's keys or a rock they've picked up off the ground, and now it's already starting to fade a bit as we're 4 months into our school year. But at any given moment there are still a half dozen children in the room, walking around with something clutched in their hands: a pizza wheel from the play dough table, a pawn from Candyland, the magnifying glass we keep near the tadpoles, a domino. 

It's such a universal behavior that it must be an important thing. For the longest time I just thought it was mostly about not knowing or caring or remembering the convention of picking things up then putting them down, because so often they only put what they clutch down when they spot something else to clutch, usually dropping the first item where they stand, without looking back.

So how does that work? When I clutch an item, I immediately discover things about it's weight, it's texture, it's shape, it's temperature.

When I walk around the room with an item in my fist, adults remark on the item, saying things like, "You have a magnifying glass," or "That belongs on the red table," and when they do I begin to learn something about what I'm holding. After enough people say the words "magnifying glass," I know what it's called. After enough people tell me it belongs on the red table I know that's where it goes.

I try using the item I clutch instead of my hands, perhaps using it to splash water or to apply paint to my paper. Sometimes those results aren't a whole lot different than with my hands or the "approved" tools. Sometimes what happens is not pleasant at all, like when I get water in my eyes. Sometimes the results are worth repeating, like what happens when I drive a car through paint.

Sometimes when I clutch something it causes the other people to freak out. For instance, the other children might wail or try to grab it back or hit me. What an incredible thing that is! Sometimes the adults try to persuade me, or even compel me to stop clutching it, saying things like, "Johnny had it first," or "That's dangerous!" Who knew? Now I do. Or at least I will after clutching those items a few more times.

So why wouldn't I want to clutch items? Who knows what's going to happen simply by holding onto something and going about my life. 

Clutching, I've come to understand, isn't a behavior so much as a series of very earnest questions.

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