The opposite of making out with a teenage boy

At the risk of sounding antediluvian, does anyone remember those cigarette vending machines? The kind with the pull-out knobs?

I can't imagine they would still have them, would they?

(They, of course, being...them?)

Yah, so I'm still nursing India. And I haven't started smoking. Or making out with teenage boys. In fact, I hadn't even thought about doing so until the other night.

Because there we were like every evening, my daughter and I, sitting in the dark, having a nurse and cuddle before her bedtime.

She was lying on her side, firmly affixed to my boob, one hand tucked around back of my body.

Jordan, when he was nursing, was always so focused on nursing. He ate and ate and ate and then he was all, oh, so tired! Need to sleep!

India. However. She turns out to be a multi-tasker.

Because yes, she's eating. But much like I eat lunch at my desk and surf the Internet and answer a phone call, there she is, flailing around with her free hand.

The rogue hand. Is how I now think of it.

Because we could be sitting there having a sweet moment in the dark. It could be lovely and relaxing.

But instead, I spend my time fending off the rogue hand.

The hand that reaches over to my other nipple and GRONK! pulls it like a vending machine nob. And then whacks my cheek. Pokes me in the mouth. Pokes my lip. Picks my teeth. Pulls my hair. Pats my boobs. Rubs my stomach.

In any of the above order. And repeatedly.

So we do this elaborate wrestling sort of dance in the dark, my kid and I. I follow the hand and block. In this case out of self-preservation rather than modesty or shyness or whatever else kept my clothes on way back then.

So there we were, like every night, and it suddenly occurred to me that my daughter is just as handsy as a teenage boy. But with an antipodal agenda.

She already has the naked boob. It is everywhere else she is up for groping.