Growing Teeth is Nasty Business

To the casual observer, it looks like our home has been attacked by a ferocious new puppy. There are toys everywhere, bits of fluff hiding in the corners, and teeth marks in the strangest places--on the corner of the entertainment center, on the rung of the chair, on the window ledges.

But all our dogs are far past the chewing stage. No, it's not a puppy--it's our very own Captain Teether, armed with 7 teeth and three or four more on the way. He's got about a 35 inch range if he streches up on his tiptoes, which means nothing is safe from the drool factory that is his mouth. It means most things on our desks, dressers and the edge of the table are fair game to be tested on those teeth, and if he finds something that is satisfying to chew on--just the right size, yields just the right amount--woe be the person who has to get it back from him.

He chews on his crib bars, he chews on wash cloths, he chews on car keys, he chews on toes (his and ours). He'll give anything a try--he's an equal opportunity teether. He especially likes to sink his teeth into the soft spot between my shoulder and my neck, prompting the never-ending chorus of "give kisses, not bites!". I try not to react when he bites me--because then it becomes a game--but I had to admit I've given a squeal or two when he sinks those chompers into my leg.

But who can blame him? I'd want to chew on something too, if I were him. He can be downright pitiful. He walks up to me, his little feet thump-thumping on the floor, and points to his mouth.

"Uh!" He says, then takes my finger and leads me to where his baby tylenol is kept, sits and opens his mouth.

So I'm patient with him, because growing teeth is nasty business. Patient even when he leaves teeth marks on the bedroom door. Or one of his books.

Or, you know, me.