In Which I Try To Figure My Nephew Out

My 19-month old nephew has a sock fetish.
Upon entering his home, a guest will find their feet the subjects of intense scrutiny from the inquisitive Gage. If said guest is wearing socks, their feet will be caressed, sat upon, held, and covered by a pair of bare, chunky little boy feet. It is strange and rather charming.
Gage's fascination with socks is only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to intriguing tidbits about this little person. He is also...magical.
Yes!
Well, I think he is. He must be!
Yesterday, I lovingly prepared some macaroni and cheese for him, and, placing him in the highchair, presented the meal, which was received with great excitement. He ate with exuberance, and creatively spread the pasta over the highchair tray. Pleased with his happiness over the meal, I stepped into the kitchen to rinse Liam's bowl and spoon. I had my back turned for 5.7 seconds. When I turned around, dear readers, I was quite shocked. The child had somehow covered my living room floor (carpet and wood alike) with macaroni. Upon closer inspection, I discovered that both couches, Liam's exersaucer, and the pillows had also fallen victim to this assault by pasta. How he wreaked such havoc in such a short time is beyond me.
Have I simply forgotten what this age is like?
Or is Gage an extraordinary little person?
Before leaving, my sister gave Gage a bottle of milk for the road. Without hesitation, he upended the bottle and began to shake it violently, spreading droplets of milk over anything in the vicinity. When he did deign to actually consume the milk, inordinate amounts of it were unceremoniously allowed to escape his mouth and soak the front of his shirt.
My fridge magnets found themselves apprehended (and thusly incapable of holding up the copious amounts of paper and art that occupy the exterior of the fridge) several times.
My senses were assaulted by spontaneous bursts of noise most frequently.
He exhausted me quite thoroughly.
And the child, he has the most liquid chocolate brown eyes. There is intelligence in those eyes. There is an inexplicable maturity, somehow. And he isn't free with his smiles, so when you manage to deserve one, your heart warms. You feel privileged. And his size! At 19 months, he is as heavy as Aidan, who is nearly 4. His arms and legs are admirably solid. He is not fat...there are no rolls of fat present. He's just big. His chest is barrel-like in proportions. His head, obviously the receptacle of an impressively large brain, invites exploration by palpation. In short, the child is large.
And those feet...those gigantic little feet that he insists on carefully placing on your sock-covered ones.
You want to eat them.
Well, you would, if they weren't covered in whatever he's most recently spilled all over himself.
He's charming.
He's crazy.
He is so, so adored.