That's not food.

I thought being a mother would be hard, which is why I put it off (or more accurately, dodged it fervently) for years. Turns out it's simpler than I thought; the bulk of my day with Jake is spent explaining to him what isn't food. He tries to catch his onesie in his mouth as I'm trying to pull it over his big head, and I tell him, "That's not food." I'll find him in his crib trying to gnaw on the mirror attached to the crib bars, and I'll tell him, "That's not food." He even makes a swipe at his diaper (the clean one, luckily) as I'm attempting to change him, and I tell him, "That's not food." When he's hungry and no food seems to be on the way, he will often snack on his hand, and I have to admit, I admire his resourcefulness. He's making do with what's available to him. But as I've explained to him countless times, it's a quick fix that has long-term drawbacks. For instance, when it comes time to learn to tie his shoes, he'll find it difficult, if not impossible, without hands. Then he'll be doomed to a lifetime spent wearing men's slip-on shoes, most of which look downright fruity, in my opinon. When I outline the potential dangers of hand consumption, however, Jake stubbornly ignores me and continues to gum his little fist. But I'll be ready with an "I told you so" when he's trying to look cool in a pair of mocassins at the senior prom.