Ryan has a favorite box. It's a huge cardboard wardrobe box that has been taking up real estate in my living room for months.
Four days ago, Ryan sequestered all his bedtime friends - a variety of plush bears and moose and his beloved White Blanket - in the box. He insisted they were to spend the night in the box. Ok, we thought, maybe he's working through the idea of growing up and he wants to test himself to see if he can sleep without his bed full of stuffed animals.
The next day, he added most of his favorite toys to the box. Small items, like his robot letters, were poked in through an oval handle cut-out, and larger things, like his dinosaurs, got dropped in from the top.
Yesterday, Ryan added a seemingly random collection of things to the party in the box; I was able to convince him not to put my phone in there, and after 18 hours I convinced him to free my boxing hand wrap.
I've asked Ryan what's up with the box, but I don't understand his non-answers. I want to assign this activity meaning, but he might just be working on filling the box.