The same used to be true, strangely, of the toys we gave children. Before the 20th century, soft toys were rarely seen as a priority, especially in times of scarcity; children had to find what joy they could in everyday household objects. Toys like corn-husk dolls, soft and durable and easily made, were the exceptions. In 1880 in Germany, when Margarete Steiff began making elephant pincushions out of felt, she was actively surprised to discover that children wanted to play with them. Inspired, she went on to create the Steiff toy empire, paving the way for mass-produced teddy bears and Cabbage Patch Kids and the current era of human-stuffie interaction, in which — cuteness being in the eye of the beholder — you can purchase cuddly versions of the Pittsburgh Steelers and the Incredible Hulk.

It was probably inevitable that children would latch onto stuffed animals. The psychologist Harry Harlow’s experiments with rhesus monkeys in the late 1950s showed that baby monkeys would overwhelmingly choose to attach themselves to soft, inanimate caretakers rather than milk-producing wire frames. The pediatrician D.W. Winnicott, observing small children’s relationships to their own cuddly toys, formed the concept of the “transitional object,” an item used by toddlers to soothe their growing realization that they are separate from their caretakers. And stuffed animals are great tools of sociodramatic play: They transform into friends or babies, protectors or students, and children care for them accordingly, trying out the roles they see modeled in the world around them, practicing what it’s like to be a person.

When I play with my stuffed animals — many of which come from the Pusheen cuteness empire — I’m not trying to reach a new developmental stage. I am, for the most part, just trying to amuse my partner or myself. I hold Sloth like an ersatz dirigible until he slowly, inexorably boops her in the head. Birthday Pusheen celebrates my partner’s birthday every time she sees her. Even when I’m alone, I will often squish one of them, watching its expression and mood shift as it swells and settles into a new shape. I can cherish the strange way one animal inflated, or the way my partner’s face lit up at another’s antics. Like daydreams, like sweet pastries consumed in secret, what the animals and their gags offer is pure delight. They enhance our private vocabulary and emotional flexibility, adding texture to conscious feelings, domesticating the unconscious ones.

Play as an adult concept is undervalued. There are surprisingly few opportunities for it outside sports and video games, both of which tend to flatten everything into obstacles and competitions. With stuffed animals, there is no goal: It’s all exploration and joy, doodling with your emotions. Having one is, in a way, a commitment to your own growth. Adults have been convinced, to our great detriment, that simply because we’ve stopped growing larger, we have stopped growing at all. But the expanse of your emotional life is never fully surveyed, and with a stuffie friend you are free to play in the uncharted space. Don’t worry about regressing; most grown adults behave like children anyway.