Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Ick. Ick. Ick.
I've been wondering when, developmentally-speaking, kids start to become aware of grossness. Whenever it is, Mae is definitely not there yet. If left to her own devices, she'd happily chow down on handfuls of sand and dirt (including bugs, if she could find them) then gnaw away on dirty sandbox toys and somebody's old shoe (found on the ground, of course).
This morning, while I had my back turned for a fraction of a millisecond, she plunged both hands into her poopy diaper and gleefully smeared it all over the crib sheet and her pajamas, and my arm, and her legs. I have (I think) developed a pretty high gross-out tolerance for certain things lately, but that one got me.
Awhile back, I was joking with my husband that I was going to buy a little cassette recorder and attach it to my belt. On it, I'd play an endless loop of me saying "No. Not for your mouth. No. Ick. Not for your mouth. Ick. Ick. Ick. Not for your mouth..." Honestly, though, it's not seeming like a half-bad idea these days.
This morning, while I had my back turned for a fraction of a millisecond, she plunged both hands into her poopy diaper and gleefully smeared it all over the crib sheet and her pajamas, and my arm, and her legs. I have (I think) developed a pretty high gross-out tolerance for certain things lately, but that one got me.
Awhile back, I was joking with my husband that I was going to buy a little cassette recorder and attach it to my belt. On it, I'd play an endless loop of me saying "No. Not for your mouth. No. Ick. Not for your mouth. Ick. Ick. Ick. Not for your mouth..." Honestly, though, it's not seeming like a half-bad idea these days.
