A little collection with a big story

What started with one cube became a family joke, a stress reliever, and one of those little things I hope my grandkids remember.

Back in January, my youngest daughter, McKenzie, brought one of her squishy cubes over.

I knew what it was. These things have been around for years. I’d seen them before and never thought much about them.

But this one was different.

I said, “Let me see that.”

The first thing I noticed was how dense it felt. It had some resistance to it. It was actually satisfying to squeeze.

So I squeezed it again.

And again.

After a few squeezes, I looked at her and said something along the lines of:

“I need this in my life.”

I was already thinking about work. Sitting at my desk, planning, thinking through problems, and trying to stay focused. I thought about keeping one around the house. Having one in my hand while I’m writing and trying to get my thoughts together.

I figured one little cube might be useful.

That was adorable.

Because apparently, I had no idea what I had just started.

One Cube Turned Into a Collection

I’m 55 years old, and somewhere between January and now, I have become the guy with squishy cubes and balls everywhere.

Not foam stress balls.

I need to make that clear because apparently I have standards now.

Gel-filled. Sugar-filled. Different textures. Different firmness. Different brands.

Squeez’M. NeeDoh. Speks. Hobby Lobby cubes and balls.

I have favorites.

I have backups.

I have backups for the backups.

There are some at the office, some in my truck, some in my room, and usually one close enough that I don’t have to go looking for it.

Even my wife Annita’s purse has been known to carry two or three.

At some point, that stops being convenience and starts looking suspiciously like distribution.

I Know How Ridiculous It Sounds

I know exactly what this looks like.

A 55-year-old man carrying around brightly colored squishy cubes.

I’ve seen people look.

Kids notice them all the time.

Sometimes you get that expression that says, Why does that grown man have that thing?

I don’t care.

Not even a little bit.

Everybody has their thing.

Some people tap their foot.

Some chew gum.

Some pace.

Some click a pen until everybody else in the room considers violence.

Some people drink enough coffee to communicate with satellites.

I squeeze a cube.

And I’ve joked more than once:

“Just think, it saves lives. I squeeze this stupid cube instead of squeezing you.”

Funny?

Absolutely.

But there is also some truth buried in there.

Because these things really do help me.

It Gives the Stress Somewhere to Go

When I’m thinking, planning, writing, working through something, or trying to stay focused, having something in my hand helps.

It gives part of my attention somewhere harmless to go.

I can sit at my desk working through a problem with one in my hand.

I can be writing a blog and squeeze one while I’m trying to figure out exactly what I want to say.

I can sit in the Jeep while Annita drives and just relax with one.

I even bring one to church on Sunday morning.

And no, it isn’t because I’m bored.

It’s almost the opposite.

Sometimes keeping my hands occupied helps my mind stay where I actually want it to be.

Listening.

Thinking.

Processing.

Being present.

That matters to me.

I don’t pretend a squishy cube fixes stress.

It doesn’t solve a problem.

It doesn’t pay a bill.

It doesn’t answer a prayer.

It doesn’t make a hard decision for me.

But sometimes something small can help you slow yourself down enough to deal with the bigger thing in front of you.

I’ve learned not to dismiss that just because it looks silly.

Then My Grandkids Got Involved

This is where the whole thing became something more than just a weird habit.

My granddaughter Emma calls me:

“Papa the NeeDoh Master.”

I have to correct the record.

I like NeeDoh.

But if we’re being accurate here, Papa is really more of a Squeez’M Master.

Details matter.

Owen is different.

Owen doesn’t just look at the collection.

He investigates it.

He wants to know what each one is, where it came from, why I have it, what it feels like, and usually about eighteen other questions.

Then, after asking why Papa possibly needs so many, he turns around and starts figuring out which one I might be willing to give him.

That kid understands negotiations.

Bristol, my second-youngest granddaughter, gets every bit as excited about them.

She takes them seriously.

When she finds one she likes, Papa is going to hear all about it.

And I love listening to her tell me.

Mila has her own little collection now.

Grayson knows mine almost as well as I do.

He knows where they’re kept.

He knows which ones are which.

If I move something from one spot in the house to another, he notices.

“Why did you move that?”

“What’s that one doing there?”

Apparently, Papa’s squishy inventory has a filing system, and Grayson is the auditor.

Then there’s Maren, my oldest granddaughter.

She has introduced me by telling people that Papa:

“Has all the squishies.”

Really?

That’s what we’re leading with?

That’s the family secret we’re putting out there first?

Not my faith.

Not anything I’ve accomplished.

Not some piece of grandfatherly wisdom.

No.

Papa has all the squishies.

Fair enough.

She’s not wrong.

Even Granny Has Been Caught

Annita is not nearly as invested in this operation as the rest of us.

But even Granny has been caught picking one up and squeezing it once in a while.

Rarely.

Very rarely.

And if the grandkids insist she try one, she never tells them no.

Apparently, she saves that word for Papa.

She has also asked me more than once why, if I’m supposedly thinking about selling some of these things, I seem incapable of actually parting with them.

That is a legitimate business concern.

I’ve considered the possibility that maybe this could become some kind of little family side hustle one day.

The grandkids could help test them.

Owen and Grayson are already qualified for quality control.

Bristol can handle enthusiasm.

Maren can apparently handle public relations.

And I’ll handle purchasing.

The only problem is that Annita has correctly pointed out that a business generally works better when the owner is willing to sell the inventory.

I prefer the term product sampling.

My Daughters Are Part of It Too

At this point, my daughters know to keep an eye out when they’re shopping.

If they see a good squishy cube or ball, Dad may be interested.

Actually, “may be interested” is probably putting it lightly.

So the whole thing that started because McKenzie brought one over back in January has somehow spread through the family.

All my grandkids have them now, except Evelyn, who is obviously still too little for them.

Even she is fascinated when she sees one.

She watches them like she already knows there’s some kind of family tradition happening and nobody has explained the rules to her yet.

And somewhere in all of this ridiculousness, I realized something.

This Isn’t Really About the Cubes

Years from now, I doubt my grandkids will remember which specific Squeez’M cube was my favorite.

They probably won’t remember whether one was gel-filled or sugar-filled.

They won’t remember which ones came from Hobby Lobby or which one Papa refused to give Owen because, apparently, I was “still testing it.”

But they might remember something else.

They might remember coming into Papa’s house and knowing exactly where the squishies were.

They might remember asking me twenty questions.

They might remember running up to show me the newest one they got.

Emma might remember calling me the NeeDoh Master.

Maren might still tell people Papa had all the squishies.

Grayson might remember that he always knew when I moved one.

Bristol might remember sitting there explaining every detail to me like it was the most important conversation in the world.

And I hope I always made it feel like it was.

Because to her, in that moment, it probably was.

That’s the part that hits me.

We spend so much of life thinking the big moments are going to be the ones people remember.

The vacations.

The birthdays.

The accomplishments.

The things we planned.

Sometimes they are.

But sometimes family gets built in the smallest, dumbest, most ordinary things imaginable.

A joke.

A nickname.

A collection.

A little cube in Papa’s hand.

Something that started because your daughter brought one over and somehow became part of the language of your family.

Faith Gets Passed Down in Ordinary Moments

Scripture actually gets at this directly. Moses told the Israelites to teach God’s ways to their children when they sit at home, when they walk along the road, when they lie down, and when they get up (Deuteronomy 6:6-7, NLT).

Not just in formal lessons.

In the ordinary moments.

And Solomon wrote that grandchildren are the crowning glory of the aged (Proverbs 17:6, NLT).

That’s part of where faith gets passed down, too. Not only in the things we intentionally teach, but in the ordinary moments when our kids and grandkids are watching, whether we have time for them.

It’s the same thing I tried to put into words in What I Need You to Know — A Letter to My Children: you are the legacy, not what I built or earned.

Maybe That’s Why I Don’t Care What Anyone Thinks

I’m 55.

I’ve lived enough life to know there are things worth worrying about.

Whether somebody thinks I look ridiculous squeezing a cube isn’t one of them.

If it helps me focus, I’m using it.

If it helps me settle down, I’m using it.

If it helps me think while I’m writing, I’m using it.

If it helps me stay present while I’m listening, I’m using it.

And if it gives my grandkids something to laugh about with Papa, I’m definitely using it.

There comes a point when you realize being comfortable with yourself is worth a lot more than looking normal to somebody you don’t even know.

Everybody has something.

This happens to be mine.

And if something harmless helps you think, work, listen, relax, or be more present with the people you love, maybe you don’t need to explain it.

Maybe you just squeeze the stupid cube.

The Part I Don’t Want to Miss

One day, these kids are going to grow up.

That part happens whether we like it or not.

The house won’t always sound the way it does now.

They won’t always come running in looking for Papa’s latest squishy.

Owen won’t always be trying to negotiate one away from me.

Grayson won’t always be checking whether I moved the collection.

Bristol won’t always need to tell Papa every detail.

Mila’s little collection will change.

Emma will eventually learn that Papa prefers Squeez’M.

Maren may even find something else to lead with when she introduces me.

Maybe.

And Evelyn, who is only fascinated by them right now, will eventually be old enough to have one of her own.

That’s why I don’t want to laugh these moments off as nothing.

Because they aren’t nothing.

They’re childhood memories being made.

They’re family.

They’re the tiny routines and inside jokes that slowly become memories.

And one day, I would give almost anything to have one more afternoon with all of them standing around asking which squishy Papa is willing to part with.

So yes.

I’m 55 years old.

I have squishies in my office, my truck, my room, and my wife’s purse.

My daughters shop for them.

My grandkids know my inventory.

People look.

Kids point.

And Papa apparently has all the squishies.

I’m completely fine with that.

Because somewhere between the stress relief, the laughs, the twenty questions, and the family jokes, these ridiculous little cubes gave us one more thing to share.

And I’m old enough now to know something I probably didn’t understand when I was younger:

The little things are rarely little once the people you love become part of them.