'Splosions Happen to Everyone

We had a delicious dinner of venison steaks, mashed potatoes, fresh rolls, broccoli, and acorn squash last evening, compliments of my parents. It was so yummy. Plus it’s really nice not to have to cook a meal with a small child wound around my legs screaming the entire time. Of course it’s not much easier for Nana to cook with the baby in her kitchen because she does pretty much the same thing to her.

A few hours after dinner, when we were all safely home, my husband’s intestines kicked up a bit of a ruckus. This is not unusual. He tends to go about his post-dinner time with bubbles in his posterior. I would like to say that after six and a half years of marriage I have gotten used to this, but the truth of the matter is that it still annoys me. I am a lady, after all.

So there we were, safely at home with his exploding Highness. This time, much to our dismay, there was a bit of a stench associated with each “‘splosion,” as my son would say. The poor child is too young to realize that there is safety in running away when daddy’s bowels are cleansing. He instead sits there placidly, like a little martyr.

I suppose there is a certain amount of knowledge that goes along with being three. Shortly after the odiferous display started a very serious and contemplative air came over my son and he turned to his father and said, “Daddy, you need to go potty.” The man really should have gone to the potty because he almost wet himself laughing.

To Thump or Not to Thump

I am a self-admitted melon-thumper. Last week I came across directions in a magazine on how to choose a ripe watermelon: look for a melon that feels heavy for its size and has a nice creamy spot to show for its time spent on the ground while basking in the sun. Nothing about putting one’s ear up to it and giving it a good whack to determine how hallow it sounds.

Armed with this new knowledge, I went to the grocery store and cautiously approached the watermelon crate. Having resolved in my mind not to thump any melons, I plucked one from its resting place. As soon as I picked it up I realized something: at nine o’clock at night, after a long day, all watermelons feel heavy. I’m not really sure if it felt heavy for its size because I don’t think that I understand what that means in the first place.

There did come a point when I had to fight off the urge to revert to my melon-thumping self. It helped that there was another lady picking through the crate at the time: she didn’t seem the type to understand my tendencies.

I felt vindicated, however, when I sliced into this particular melon and it was not up to par. Most people, I’m sure, would have felt the tug of disappointment when the rind was cut away to reveal tepid pink color instead of a dark juicy red. Not me. I now feel free to go back to happily whacking my watermelons. As long as there isn’t anyone watching. I like to thump those melons in private, and don’t appreciate being sniggered at.

Who Needs A Tissue?

How is a person supposed to teach a toddler not to wipe his runny nose on the sleeve of his shirt, the couch, carpet, his sister, etc? My poor son is suffering from über-runny-nose-syndrome and I can’t seem to keep up with the output, so he is helping himself to the furniture in lieu of a tissue. At least the fabric of our couch is micro fiber so I can scrub the lethal boogies out of it.

I believe this may be the first cold he has had where the amount of congestion is so excessive that it actually causes him to drool. As charming as that sounds, it’s really kind of gross. While the snot drips from every orifice in his face he grabs his sister’s face with both of his hands and plants a big (really) wet kiss on her head. No. I don’t think she’ll get sick. Really! I’m sure the fact that she keeps sipping out of the cups he leaves lying around the house won’t increase the chance of any illness on her part.

Speaking of illness, I thought I would lose my lunch after seeing the amalgamation of sweet things my husband put together for a snack. He was so proud of it that he took a picture and wrote down instructions for proper layering. Just looking at it made me want to eat a large salad. Or drink a big cup of water.

Look At The Crazy Lady

Yesterday, I was the person in the grocery store that you take one glance at, elbow your companion, and say, “Look at that nut.” Well, you would probably stare and not glance at me, because it would take more than a glance to figure out just what it is that I was doing. I’m not usually this person, but sometimes it just can’t be helped. Lately I’ve been too busy herding the whole family down the aisles, trying in vain to get through the store in less than an hour and a half while the toddler runs up and down giggling maniacally, dropping cans of beans and soup on his toes, and the husband stops at anything that looks even mildly appetizing because he didn’t eat enough before we left and now he’s hungry.

Last night, however, I decided that I really wanted to take an hour and go to the grocery store by myself. It helped my case a little that my son is snotting from his nose and I didn’t think it would be nice for other consumers to catch his cold simply because they were out of canned-squid-in-a-blanket at home and needed to go to the grocery store to buy a couple of cans. My husband graciously offered to stay at home with the children after I quickly nixed his proposal to go to the store for me with the standard, “It will be much faster if I go because I know where everything is and I know what we need. If you go I would have to make a detailed list. Thanks anyway.” (Always be sure to thank a helpful husband, because if you don’t he may not offer to be helpful anymore. Although, there are plenty of times where he doesn’t want to be helpful so much as he doesn’t want to be left home alone with sick kids.)

So off I went on my mission of mercy, bringing milk and chicken nuggets to a home and ailing toddler that had none. It was a chilly evening, and I drove along enjoying the feel of a warm and fuzzy hoodie on my skin, already excited for the fall even though there have only been a dozen or so hot days. I hoped that the baby hadn’t started crying for me yet, as she seemed a little leery on my leaving the house.

The first item that a shopper encounters at our favorite grocery store is nice, juicy (and seedless) watermelons. Now, I really have no idea where I picked up this habit, but I simply cannot buy a watermelon without first putting my ear up to it and giving it a good rap with my knuckles: if it sounds hollow that means it’s a good one. I swear I heard that somewhere. At any rate, if I tried to simply pluck a melon from the crate and plop it into my shopping cart I would probably have some sort of mental breakdown.

Somewhere along my journey I came to grips with the fact that I needed some sort of doughnut. I rarely buy junk at the store because I don’t want it in my pantry, taunting me until my eyes bug out at funny angles and I, in crazed desperation, rip open the package and devour its contents in one fell swoop. Okay, that’s a little extreme, but still. At any rate, there I was, methodically searching the bakery department wondering where they had moved the fresh doughnuts to. Since the dawn of time, the doughnuts have been in the same spot. I have ignored them time and time again, and now when I needed them they were not to be found. Ah, ha! Tucked away next to the fresh brownies and evil double-chocolate-chocolate cakes were a few large éclairs. “Well,” I thought, “that’ll do just fine!”

Obviously I couldn’t just pick the first one from the shelf and place it lovingly into the basket. No. I had to stand there and lift each plastic container from the shelf and look to see which was the largest and which had more chocolate on top. Yep. Don’t mind me. By the time I got home I really needed that extra creamy frosting. I stink at picking which line to stand in at the checkout. I’m happy to say that I didn’t ruin my batting average either. There were only three open lanes and I picked the slowest. Sigh. I even tried to be a little scientific. I not only considered the number of carts in each line and how full they each were, but I also made an attempt to judge which of the employees scanned and bagged the fastest. What? Forget that I was probably going home to a screaming infant, a boogery toddler, and a husband who would never let me leave the house childless again. I was in a bit of a hurry to get home and eat my éclair.

Is There A Band-Aid In The House?

My son has figured out that he can open the refrigerator door all by himself. He will go in to get his cup of milk all by himself or to unwrap some leftover pancakes from yesterday’s breakfast. Thankfully he hasn’t tried to play catch with any of the eggs yet. This afternoon he came into the dining room and plunked down a container of Spaghettios to eat for a snack.

I had another moment the other day when I marveled at the fact that I can still behave like a brand-new mommy. The kids and I were out shopping; when we left the store I looked down at BoBeans and noticed that he had blood smeared all over his face and also his left hand. “For Heaven’s sake!” my mind screamed, “What is going on? He isn’t crying and he’s acting perfectly normal! Is he delirious?!” (I’m not generally this insane at the sight of blood, but I was so startled that I misplaced my proper reaction. To my credit, I did stay outwardly calm). I first examined his head to make sure the blood wasn’t originating there. It was much more concentrated on his hand, and I quickly saw the reason for the mess.

He had chewed on a hangnail. A person wouldn’t think that a little finger-chewing could produce so much blood, but there it was. One would also think that someone who has been doing this mommy thing for over two-and-a-half years would carry Band-Aids. Especially when the toddler is a boy. Think again. The poor kid continued to bleed while I stood there applying pressure to his boo-boo with a baby wipe.

After a few minutes I gave up and we made our way to another store in the promenade that I hoped would have some type of bandage simply because it sold children’s clothing. While the store did not keep Band-Aids on hand one of the employees happened to have bandages in her purse that were left over from a recent trip she had taken.

I guess I’m going to have to buy a larger bag in order to keep everything on hand that I seem to find myself in need of these days. Perhaps I can just take a class and learn how to fold things into tiny little squares: that way I can just fold up the whole house and take it with me everywhere I go.

I Wanna Chocolate Cake!

The last few nights I have had some difficulty sleeping. One o’clock this morning found me putting a chocolate cake in the oven because I was stressed and in desperate need of a cocoa fix. By the time it was done cooking I could hardly keep my eyes open, but I managed to find the strength to eat a small piece before crawling into bed.

When there is a super-moist chocolate cake sitting on the countertop what is a person supposed to eat for breakfast? Chocolate cake, of course. If Bill Cosby can give his kids chocolate cake for breakfast I suppose it’s okay for me to do the same. Like Bill says there are wheat, eggs and milk in chocolate cake: just as healthy as toast, fried eggs and milk in a glass, right? Sadly the baby had to adhere to her diet of Cheerios and yogurt (life just isn’t fair sometimes).

I was pretty confident that feeding my toddler yummy dessert food for breakfast wasn’t too bad. It was after I gave in to his insistence that he repeat the meal for lunch that I began to worry that I may be committing some kind of mommy-sin. After that I lost total control and ate cake for lunch myself. Thankfully we had an impromptu get-together with our small group of bestest friends: it was a great opportunity to get some of the irresistible chocolate goodness out of our house and into somebody else’s. If not for that I’m fairly certain that we would have been eating it for breakfast and lunch tomorrow too.

Who Brought This?

Everyone, excepting the baby, learned something new about food this Easter Sunday. Not for lack of trying on the baby’s part, for she will try to eat anything presented to her; however, there is only so much food that is palatable for a nine month old.

For my part, I learned that peanut butter cookies dunked until soggy in coffee are a new dangerous favorite for me. Dangerous because although I have self-control in many areas when it comes to food, this does not seem to be one of them. It is quite possible that I would continue to submerge the crunchy cookies until I either went mad from the amount of caffeine I was ingesting or I threw up from the amount of sugar I was introducing into my system. This was the first time I have made this type of cookie since being married six years ago: they were a favorite of my Dad’s and I used to make them when I lived at home with my parents, but I tend to shy away from hard cookies as I prefer soft, chewy ones. It was sometime yesterday evening in the midst of my sugar-induced euphoria that I declared the peanut butter cookie, accompanied by a hot cup of coffee, to be my new favorite. I shall have to be careful and only bake them for very special occasions so as to avoid blatant displays of self-indulgence and gluttony.

My little boy got his first chocolate car. He loves cars and trucks and his Nana couldn’t resist buying him a chocolate racecar. Of course he attempted to drive it and seemed a bit confused when he was told it was for eating, but he soon got over it and happily gnawed off the front bumper.

And then came my husband’s food related learning experience. The poor man has been teased about his garbage disposal approach to eating for many years now. He takes it in stride because he knows it to be largely founded in truth and I believe that he takes some pride in this title. (Only one of our male friends can wolf down a plate of food faster than my husband, and my husband speaks of him with a kind of reverence and admiration). My husband not only has the ability to eat absolutely humungous portions of food, he also finds a wide range of food to be palatable and does not balk from trying new delicacies. Yesterday was no exception. While the rest of the family was recuperating from dessert in Nana’s living room- where I’m sure I was still dunking cookies- my husband wandered into the kitchen in search of more coffee and something to munch on. A short time earlier Nana had placed her cat’s food on the counter next to the percolator so that the baby wouldn’t get into it. As my husband made his way toward the countertop the kitchen was cloaked in a quiet, dusky darkness. I suppose there really is no need for me to say anything further except that my husband not only chewed and swallowed one modest handful, but two, and was on his way back to the living room to see if anyone could tell him what he was eating before the cogs in his brain started to turn and he blurted, “I just ate cat food!” to himself and everyone present as he crossed the threshold of the room.

The customary jokes followed, and my husband expressed his delight at the sheen his coat of fur was sure to get; I was told not to be surprised if I found him curled up on the windowsill licking himself, and he was warned about tracking litter around the house after trips to the cat box. After much laughter and silliness the family eventually succumbed to the return of post-dinner lethargy. All in all, my husband, food connoisseur that he is, declared the whole fiasco to be a success of sorts as he imparted his wisdom that cat food actually doesn’t taste too badly.

Behold, The Power Of Cheese

After my son was born I always (half) jokingly said that I hoped to one day have a nice, quiet little girl who would sit once in a while to give me a break from my constantly on-the-go little boy. My daughter will be nine months old in a couple of days and it seems unlikely that her personality will develop into a child that sits still and watches what is going on around her.

Even though she is still doing the army crawl it only takes a blink of the eye for her to warp to a new location where she can find something to get into. We have no way to put a gate across the three bottom steps, so she is already playing on the bottom step and trying to climb them. In her little world the cat’s food and water dishes have become an all-you-can-eat self serve food bar for the hungry baby. Mom is a little late getting my lunch - no problem! I’ll just help myself to some of this dry stuff in the shape of a chicken leg. Tastes just like Cheerios! The trick is to swallow it before mommy can fetch it out of her mouth.

Of course there are times when she participates in relatively safe activities like chasing the cats or playing with her brother’s toys, although the safety of the latter activity is quickly being called into question. She has gotten to the point where she dislikes it when her brother takes a toy away from her: she has been observed swatting at his offending hand in frustration.

Regardless of the fact that she is very task oriented and likes to stay busy, her maternal instinct is sharpening. She delights in feeding her father and I Cheerios from her tray and often becomes insistent if we show disinterest toward eating them. I could quickly become fat by being handfed by the baby because she has such a wonderful giggle when I eat from her hand that I could let her feed me all day and not tire of it.

Food is a powerful thing. I almost wept at the beauty of a ham sandwich the other day. The cross-section of it was mind-blowing: a thick layer of green, crispy lettuce so fresh that it sparkled with water sat beneath thinly sliced white cheddar, extra sharp, decorated with yellow mustard and topped with ham betwixt two slices of soft potato bread. I tell you, it brought a tear to my eye.

R.I.P. Christmas Cookie

When presented with a be-sprinkled cookie a little girl may marvel at how tiny they are or admire the rainbow of color. She may try to separate them into small piles in order to determine exactly how many different colors there are. Or see if she could crunch just one between her teeth.

A boy probably wouldn’t do any of these things. Not for very long anyway. My BoBeans didn’t get past the word “ball.” There, on top of his cookie, were tiny balls. And what do little boys do with balls? They throw them. He tried, rather unsuccessfully, to throw them each individually. He looked to his right and said, “Catch!” to his Uncle Bob.

That didn’t work so well. It is hard to follow the trajectory of a sprinkle. So he resorted to flicking them all over. By the time my son was done mutilating the once beautiful Christmas cookie it looked as though the area around his booster seat was the Christmas Cookie Topping Burial Ground. The little guy was also nicely decked out in what appeared to be chocolate colored war paint.

We had a small Christmas gathering yesterday with a couple of our close and dear friends. Besides an abundance of cookies there was a smattering of other good and comforting foods along with coffee, tea, and eggnog.

When my son wasn’t mauling cookies he would pluck various other items off of a tray to sample. He would wander around nibbling a cracker for a little while and then decide he no longer wanted it, so he would replace the remnants to the exact spot on the tray from whence it came. There would be a row of agreeably placed crackers at the end of which was placed, ever so precisely, the aforesaid sculpted cracker.

They were so tastefully gnawed that they reminded me of modern art. I should have saved them to sell on Ebay. People have paid copious amounts of money to attain stranger things than chiseled party food.

Food!

My little girl strongly resembles me in looks, but I found that there are certain aspects of my personality where she mirrors me as well. She loves to eat. It is no secret to those close to me that I love food. Thankfully the metabolism that God has given me can hold up to occasional divergences into the land of Bad Eating.

The baby started on solid food a couple of weeks ago (solid as in pureed). Only in the last week or so has she figured out how to open her mouth for the spoon and actually swallow the majority of it. Previously she spent most of the mealtime licking her lips, sucking on her tongue and spitting the food all over herself and the surrounding area. Now that these fine motor skills are more or less finely tuned the act of eating holds some pleasure for her. At least it certainly appears to.

My daughter enjoys her repast in the comfort of her bouncy chair. By the time the bib is securely in place so as to absorb most of the mess that is sure to be made she knows what’s coming and starts to kick her legs with the thrill of it all. (When a kicky baby is settled into one of these chairs it turns into a kind of baby-catapult, so always make sure that the baby is properly restrained so that he or she will not go flying through the air until stopped by a solid object like a wall.) There she sits making baby noises and kicking in between mouthfuls of sweet potatoes. Her eyes get all wide when she sees the spoon coming toward her mouth; if mommy is too slow in getting it there the little girl will grab mommy’s wrist with both of her small hands and pull the food-laden spoon into her waiting mouth.

There is still a little bit that needs to be learned about the whole spoon-eating thing. Approximately every other time her lips close around the spoon she zerberts the mush all over her face and up her nose. I’ve decided that I prefer foods like pears and applesauce: they don’t stain quite as much.

All I Want for Christmas is to Lose the Ten Pounds I Gained on Thanksgiving

I believe I am losing my endurance when it comes to marathon eating. On Thanksgiving Day I squeeze a small portion of everything onto my dinner plate. This may not sound like a whole ton of food, but one must consider the bounty of an average Thanksgiving in the home of my parents.

Our table consists of traditional items like turkey, bread, homemade cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and stuffing; in addition there is also broccoli with cheese sauce, creamed pearl onions, green beans, corn, glazed carrots and sweet potatoes. Just in case we feel the need to whet our appetites stuffed mushrooms, fig and goat cheese spread, and celery with pimento cream cheese are also available for sampling along with a port wine cheese ball.

All of this for my immediate family of six, my husband and our two babies. Whew! My grandparents join us for dessert: pumpkin and apple pies supplemented this year with cutout butter cookies and iced pumpkin cake.

So, there I am with all of my food touching: the cranberry sauce atop my turkey and the cheese sauce flowing over into my sweet potatoes. When I was younger I found myself able to eat multiple helping of everything throughout the day, but now I’m lucky if I can eat dessert and still manage to be breathing at the end of the night. We customarily end the holiday by playing a game together. This probably started as an attempt to burn some calories by means of good old-fashioned belly laughter.

My prayer this Thanksgiving is that I won’t ever find myself nine months pregnant on this holiday of over-eating because by that time in a pregnancy the mommy is reduced to portions resembling a tablespoon in size as a result of the baby taking up every centimeter of available space and pushing mommy’s stomach up into her throat. Every year in my delirium I vow that I shall not eat again until the following Thanksgiving Day. I always seem to forget that by lunch time on Friday when I attempt to recreate my dinner plate with leftovers.

Barbarians, cavemen, and toddlers. Oh, my!

This is not the first time that I have discussed my son’s eating habits. He is a picky eater; he will eat cat litter and dirt; he will put his hands in his mouth when they are covered in sidewalk chalk; and he occasionally indulges in the delicacy of a Crayola crayon. If a particular food is considered healthy, chances are he won’t even try it.

There are only three safe bets when it comes to foods that he won’t refuse: carbohydrates (cereal, pancakes, bread, crackers, pretzels, cookies, chips, french fries, etc.), cucumbers, and Tyson brand chicken nuggets. The list of foods that he will usually eat is not much longer: hot dogs, ice cream, pb&j, grilled cheese, spaghetti, pizza, and watermelon. We can sit him down to dinner when he is starving and he will sit there for hours without touching his food if he decides he doesn’t want to eat it.

What I have yet to share is the way in which he eats the food he deems worthy enough to chew and swallow. Let’s start with pancakes. My son raises this breakfast staple to his mouth with his index finger and thumb; he then proceeds to crumble teeny tiny pieces of it into his mouth. These teeny tiny pieces go places other than his mouth as well: all over the floor, his bib, under his bib, his pants, on the booster seat, etc. :::deep breath:::

When it comes to cucumbers, the boy chews through to the seeds and eats them, leaving a “u” shaped ring of cucumber behind. No seedless cucumbers in our house, thank you very much.

Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and grilled cheese also have their own special way of being devoured. First the two pieces of bread must be pulled apart. Once that has been accomplished my little boy impales the insides of the sandwich onto his index finger and eats it. After the bread is sufficiently deformed and disfigured he consumes that as well in a manner similar to pancakes.

One would think he could handle finger foods such as Cheerios and crackers. However, due to my son’s experimental eating habits (i.e. lifting the bowl to his mouth and darting out his tongue like a toad) it is not uncommon to find a dozen Cheerios or whole crackers underneath his rear end and also under the opposite end of the table.

So not only must I wipe his hands and face, his chair and between all of his fingers, I am also obliged to clean out his hair, brush off his clothes and vacuum the whole house. :::sigh::: The only reason I even bother to vacuum at all is that I don’t want to have to go to the hospital after stepping on a petrified crumb in order to have said crumb surgically removed from the bottom of my foot.

And so, technology dies.

After the invention of cell phones many of us wondered how in the heck we got along without them. We could now call the friend we were meeting at the mall instead of walking around for hours trying to locate them because they thought you were going to meet at the store entrance into the mall while you were under the impression that you were gathering at the store entrance to the parking lot. Instead of dropping by unannounced to visit a pal you could now phone first to make sure that you wouldn’t be interrupting anything, or to verify that you would not be going fifteen minutes out of your way just to find their car gone and no one at home. And, of course, they offer a certain amount of security when lost or having car troubles.

Microwaves are a similarly wonderful piece of technology. They are not the best for making scintillating home-cooked sit down dinners, but boy are they great to heat up leftovers or fix a quick snack. The amount of time to boil water for one cup of tea or to pop popcorn is greatly diminished with a microwave when compared to a stovetop. This sort of operation generally dirties fewer dishes as well.

Nine-thirty last night found me in the midst of an attempt to will the microwave to heat some leftovers as I had yet to eat any form of dinner. The appliance had warmed up leftover chili for my husband hours before and also a bit of leftover noodles for my son. The baby was in her crib sound asleep with a tummy full of milk. I alone was starving! I found myself unable to channel my Jedi mind-powers properly for lack of food; the microwave gave one final sputter and touted its triumph over my hungry stomach by refusing to abide by my attempt to force it into submission by repeatedly jabbing the Quick Min button.

In my desperation I had to resort to boiling water on the stove for some good old-fashioned macaroni and cheese in a box because I had already had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that day and on top of that I had a hankerin’ for hot food. What should have taken two minutes turned into about twenty minutes of listening to my belly grumble before I was able to eat.

Ah, the things we take for granted. If, dear reader, you have yet to acquire the sniffles as the cold weather sets in thank the Lord above for a chap-less nose, and give your microwave a pat on the back so that it will not decide to give its notice and force you to stand over the stove with a tissue coiled up your nose stirring chicken soup when the time to be sick does come.

The incredible shrinking pants!

Breastfeeding is an excellent excuse for eating just one more piece of bread, one more helping of lasagna, or one more serving of dessert. When pregnant a woman needs approximately three to five hundred extra calories per day; when breastfeeding she needs about three to five hundred more per day than when she is pregnant. Notice that the wave of thought never goes to: gee, I’m breastfeeding, so therefore I can have another helping of salad! Yippee! It seems to me that an increase in calorie intake equals extra room for carbohydrates and chocolate!

I gained very little weight with this last pregnancy and most of it came off quickly. There remains that last five pounds, however, that clings tenaciously to my midsection. The jeans that I purchased right before I found out I was pregnant with my littlest baby are still difficult to wear. There is plenty ‘o room in the waist, but they are terribly tight in the posterior which causes my still-larger rump to go numb. Yep. It’s actually rather painful. Only one pair out of the four I own stay up without a belt or without making my tuckus ache. (By the way, spell check doesn’t like the word: tuckus).

What a vicious cycle: get hungry + eat = have numb cheeks + cry from pain = stress eat. One would think the numbness would deter a person from eating, but in reality it probably exacerbates the problem. Maybe I should just buy some new jeans. First, I need to change my pants before both legs go numb and I fall down.

Are you going to eat that? Part 2

Bill Cosby was right when he declared that all kids have brain damage. Why else would my two-year-old son behave the way he does? He will sit at the table with a plate of scrambled eggs and resolve not to eat them. He will sit there for hours, half starved, while the circles underneath his eyes grow darker and darker from hunger, and yet he will still persist in his refusal to eat the fluffy yellow eggs. This we call stubbornness. It is the fact that when released from his booster seat he thinks nothing of picking up dirt from the floor and putting that in his mouth: this we call brain damage. No, thank you, I don’t believe I’ll eat my eggs today, but if you can find me a nice fresh piece of cat litter I’ll just have that instead. YUCK! Of course, once something like that enters the mouth it is almost impossible to get it back out again. That fact, however, does nothing to discourage me from trying to retrieve the muck from my son’s mouth. So, at numerous times on any given day one can observe me doing just that. The command, “give that to mommy!” causes my toddler to look up at me from the top of his eyeballs and stick out his tongue. It amazes me that although he is quite adept at placing things into his mouth and taking out thing that are good for him, like peas, he has not yet mastered the technique of removing dirt from his mouth. So out comes the tongue which he proceeds to wipe on my outstretch palm in an effort to get rid of the offending non-food. To the untrained non-parenting eye I’m sure it just looks like I enjoy having my little boy lick my hand, but there is a difference between a lick and a tongue just resting on the hand after becoming immobilized by dirt-germs. This is usually about the time I decide that it would not be good for my son’s body to digest the ick so I put my slobbery hand into his mouth in hopes of being able to remove it myself. This works, at best, an average of two out of fifty-four times. About the same number of times I actually succeed in getting him to eat his eggs.