Sometime early on in my pregnancy Mikey and I were visiting with our friends Renee and Steve and their beautiful little Claira, and one of them made an offhand comment like, "You'll be surprised by how much you want to eat your own child," or something along those lines. We got a good chuckle out of it and that was that.
Until this one came along:
Until this one came along:
With her apple cheeks and drumstick thighs and stacked marshmallow arms. And don't even get me started on her tush. Or those dimply little paws and squishy feet. Oh, and her nose? Like a gumdrop. And how could I not mention that round belly that pretty much demands to be raspberry-d?
It's true. I am surprised at how much I want to eat my own child.
Making it even harder to say no to cannibalism is that heavenly baby smell that radiates from all of her little creases, especially the one on the back of her neck. Not only does that smell wield the power to make even a stranger's uterus ache, but it also seems to do something to my brain chemistry that seriously makes me think, "It wouldn't be so bad to take a big bite out of her, would it?"
Seriously, even she can't resist chomping on her little piggy-toes.
Oh, Natalie, I'll eat you up, I love you so.
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