Punishment for Gluttony

Hello, my name is Suzie, and I am an addict. My drug of choice is Hannah's belly. When she does this*:

or this*:
or this:
and maybe especially this:
. . . I have to eat it. Devour it, more like. Munch munch, kiss kiss, nom nom, Pppppppppppfffft! I can't help myself from helping myself. Bare belly is by far the best, but onesies don't stop me.** My personal favorite is after-bath belly that smells like green apple and lavender soap and is just so pink and warm and irresistibly scrumptious and grrrrr chomp chomp slurp shhhhhmack! Baby skin is heavenly. Baby BELLY skin . . . sinful. Seriously. Nothing should taste this good and be this fun (for all the giggles it elicits) at the same time.

But I have a problem.

My addiction has come back to bite me in the belly. It was a quiet evening like any other. A dinner of beans, rice, cucumbers and tomatoes. A session of picking rice out of her hair monkey-style. A kiss and a thank you for dinner ("dee doo!"). She ran off to play with her toys before bed. I stretched out on the couch with my book. All was quiet and calm and eventually. . . I drifted . . . off . . . to sleep.

Then, so subtle it could have been a dream, icy little fingers crept up my shirt. I felt a draft of cold air on my midriff. I hazily opened one eye and looked down just in time for. . . oh no! Don't do it! Please!

Too late.

Pfffffffffftttttt!


*The last photos of a binkied baby.
** For a definition of onesie, click here.