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My two-year old daughter came up to me this morning and pre-milk, pre-Elmo’s world, pre-coffee, took my face in her hands and said, “I eat you, Mama.”

Just like that.

I’d pulled her out of the crib and had run out of her room to attend to my thrashing, caught in a blizzard of last night’s ribbon, son.

Ribbon and three plus year old’s don’t get along. They’re like slinkys. There’s fun and then there’s a tangle and the thrash begins.  I tried to get him into some kind of WWF body lock while, in a repressively calm voice telling him to hold his three and a half year old self still, but he was thrashing. This is what most three and a half year old’s do, I’ve discovered. They thrash. And they throw things. Bottles, cell phones, plastic fire trucks. Charming.

So, I’m WWFing my thrashing son and my daughter steps over the ribbon and grabs my face.

“I eat you, Mama.”

I’ve decided to name this blog after her comment because it captures the almost embarrassing, totally overwhelming desire that I’ve experienced with my children. The desire to eat them. Especially, I confess, my daughter. My love is consumptive. Cliche as it is, I straddle the fence between primal and domesticated. I want to eat my children not simply because of their undeniably cherubic faces and big bellies. I want to eat them because I can’t even begin to understand the love that I have for them. It’s physical. It’s wolfish. And, apparently, my daughter feels the same way. The love creates a beauty that overwhelms. And at times, in that moment, closer just isn’t enough.