Something about the scale of it all. She is so small, and the houses around her, while not mammoth or wide, gather in space and dwarf her small steps. I rap on the window, knuckles on glass. She stops her swift trot, tilts her head. Sees me, smiles. Points her finger towards some spot that must loom quite large in her quest. Totters off to the door that is waiting wide open. She steps out of sight before I can see if she enters or not.
Such an immense tiny world that exists for those under age three. Green trees and gray posts soar high to the heavens, while doorknobs and light switches remain far from her reach. Everything is above. No wonder children lurch, grab, seize! They must snatch what they can, from spots they can touch. Everything else is out there, distant. Inside, outside, everything up.
Soon life will reach down to greet her and her kin slightly more than halfway. The houses will seem slightly less grand, as doors can be turned and windows unlatched. No more need for that chair and its dangerous small wobble to aid in her search for sharp pointy toys. She will have to do what I do when I want to feel small -- look up at the sky, and hold up my arms, and wait for an entrance I hope might descend.