It started one day when my little nephew, Zach, and I were playing trains on the living room floor. I was so overcome by his chubby cheeks and dimples that I had to scoop him up in my arms and give him a big hug. As I squeezed the little blonde butterball, I said, “Squish!” The next day I watched the 1½ year old toddle around Granny’s kitchen, looking for something to entertain him. I went to the toy box. “Come on Zach, let’s play trains.” Trains were old news. He ignored me and suddenly became fascinated with the garbage can lid. “Zach,” I mock-scolded him and put my hands on my hips. “Come over here right now so I can give you a squish.” Suddenly his bored expression broke into a wide, sparse-toothed smile as he let out a nervous giggle. I coaxed him again. He took a few small steps toward me and raised his two arms shoulder level. “You have to come closer for me to squish you.” I persuaded. His anxious laugh came out in spurts now as he tried to hold it in. I planted firmly, forci