My Name's Not Wonka, This Ain't A Chocolate Factory, Quit Licking Me

I present to you today, the next installment of this blog's only feature - Shit My Kid Needs To Learn.

Much like Brad Pitt in anything*, my child has an oral fixation. Sight, touch, smell - none of these are as important to Supergirl as her sense of taste. 

She explores the world around her through her tongue. And in times of stress (i.e. now), her licking escalates to proportions previously unknown to man. 

Apparently, I taste really friggin' good. 

Every night before she goes to sleep, we have snuggle time on the couch. We lay there snuggling, talking quietly about our day when suddenly I feel the warm wet tongue running up and down my arm. Or my face. Or my hand. 

And that is when the snuggling ends. 

It does not end with me though, she licks doors, counter tops, the floor, door handles (oh my goodness, does she love the cool metallic surface of a door handle). If there is nothing left to explore, she will lick the palm of her hand and smear it on the closest window. I have given up on cleaning the window next to her car seat. It will be smeared, grungy, and sticky until this phase ends. 

If it ever does. 

She likes to chew on the inside collar of the neck of her shirt. Or, if the shirt is long enough, the bottom hem. When she plays "puppy" (the most obnoxious game I can think of, because she only wants to do it when we are trying to leave the house and she goes all non-verbal on me and is on all fours, giving her gravitational advantage against me picking her up and getting her to the car) she will pick up shoes, socks, even toys with her mouth. Her commitment to character is strong, 

This is most likely my least favorite stage. It is also the one that has lasted the longest, she started doing this around age two. Perhaps I should have listened to the pacifier advocates (she never used one), perhaps I let her nurse too long. 

This may be just her way of trying to cling on to a babydom that seemed to end too fast, of hanging on to every last second of getting to be a baby instead of growing little girl.

Or another of her attempts to kill me faster. 

*By the way, now that you have clicked over to that link to read that article, you will never be able to unsee it. I tried to watch Moneyball this past weekend and all I could focus on was the sheer amount of stuff that he was cramming into his face. That man is a machine! 

I can only guess how much you have to exercise to be able to constantly eat like that and still be allowed into Angie's domain. Maybe he is only allowed to eat on movie sets. Maybe she prohibits food from even entering their house. Although, I saw pictures of her once buying a bunch of Happy Meals for the children at a McDonald's. I wonder if they had to eat them outside of the house while she sat in the bathroom and cried. I wonder if George Clooney is smuggling food to the kids and Brad on movie sets, since he always seems to be there, even when he is not in the movie. 

In case you are wondering, the mystery behind them completely sucks me in. I know that they are supposed to be real people, but didn't he seem more real when he was married to Jen and smoking pot all day? Maybe that was just me and my codependent issues. 
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