When I was pregnant with Harper (and had absolutely zero clue what the fuck was coming my way), I was all, “I’m totally going to be a hot mom who is basically un-phased by snot, poop and Cheerios.” I’m not kidding when I say my current life mission is to NOT have my life taken over by Cheerios. They symbolize the complete and total loss of pre-child life. Like, seriously, if you let them, Cheerios would fill your house, car, bed, bath tub, hair and towels.

But, of course, being a normal 20-month old, Harper loves Cheerios (Chee-O). It’s one of the words, along with chocolate (shadda), cookie (titty), treat (tweet), milk (muk), paci and MINE, that she has perfected. Of course being an anal bitch, I’m still determined to conquer Cheerios so I spend half my life picking them up off the floor and vacuuming them out of the car seat and telling Harper that Sanch does not like Cheerios. And then the other day, I pulled out a beach towel, and low and behold there was a year-old Cheerio crusted onto the towel.

I wept a little inside.

I’m totally not winning this game.

When you spend half your time picking up food or changing diapers or searching the Internet for the best chemical to remove the smell of puke, you simply aren’t left with tons of time to be the “hot mom” you always dreamed you’d be. When you add being almost 6 months pregnant into the mix, looking in the mirror at your super hot body and dark eye circles contradicts everything you visualize in your mind.

And you know what happens when you have a mid-pregnancy/raising a toddler at the same time crisis?

THIS:

I went to get my hair done, and I somehow came back with red streaks. Clearly, I am losing my mind if I thought red streaks = hot.

I just needed something.

Harper is my life. She kills me with how cute she is. Every phase we go through requires time and attention. We are currently in the transition phase from crib to bed. It takes no fewer than 1.5 hours for her to finally go to sleep. She loves the fact that she can get out of bed on her own. She gets up, knocks on her door and says, “Mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama” until someone comes to get her. We get her, put her back to bed, read Good Night Moon for the 600th time, sing twinkle twinkle, kiss Mickey, hug Minnie, tickle Mimi and hug Harper. This routine happens over and over and over until Harper finally gives in.

It. Is. Exhausting. And, even though it’s only 8 p.m. on a Friday when she falls asleep, and I technically could go for a jog or paint my nails to look pretty, I prefer to lay on the couch and eat Pretzel M&Ms while watching Real Housewives until I pass out at 8:45 p.m.

HOT. MAMA. HOT. HOT. HOT.

But then I look at her sleeping in her big girl bed and I feel like I want a gold star. I feel like Laef and I are winning. Like despite the fact that he’s gone completely bald and is already stressing about having two girls, which means one thing, and one thing only to him – TWO WEDDINGS – we’re doing this.

Despite the fact that my hair is completely fucked up and I’m trying to squeeze into non-maternity clothes for as long as possible so that Harper can go to gym class and swim lessons, we are pretty much winning this game.

Yes, on most days my feet and hands are totally sweaty (yay Pregnancy!), I’m out of breath from walking to the bathroom (double Yay pregnancy!), and I eat Tums for breakfast (HIP HIP HOORAY Pregnancy!).

BUT Harper sleeps in a bed!

And she’s so cute!

Before Harper came along, Sanch was king of our family. I just looked, and there are 41 blog posts dedicated to him, his shit-stained ass, and all of his other issues.

Post-Harper, it’s safe to say that the cat does not get as much ink. It’s not that he is not deserving, and hasn’t continued to do things that are blog-worthy. They say babies are smart and they learn things quickly – it’s amazing how fast Harper learned to say chocolate and how eagerly she will do the sign for “please” knowing that we get things when we say please, yet she still won’t cover her mouth she coughs. In fact, if you put her hand over her mouth and say, “cover, please”, she will shake her head emphatically and say, “nope.”

Babies basically know how to do everything, and they understand everything you try to teach them, but they pick and choose what they feel like doing. It’s one of the joys of parenthood – the proud moments when they say thank you without you prompting them – and one of the biggest frustrations – why are you screaming to get out of the high chair instead of just saying the words, “all done”?? I KNOW YOU KNOW HOW TO SAY ALL DONE. YOU SAY CHOCOLATE AND POPSICLE.

Anyway, kids aren’t the only smart ones. Cats are smart too. Sanchez has learned that when people cry or throw fits in the middle of the night, they usually get some kind of attention. They are tended to with milk and snuggles and sweet nothings. So, it is inevitable that on nights when Harper sleeps like a baby (and not a spoiled toddler), Sanchez runs amok. I can count on one finger the number of nights where they are BOTH silent for 8 consecutive hours.

When Harper is silent, Sanchez picks up the slack, meowing and scratching our bedroom door incessantly. We have tried sleep training him the same way we did with Harper, which is to say we ignore him. Sometimes he gives up, and sometimes he persists.

I guess it’s safe to say that he doesn’t get as much attention as he used to, but things are slowly starting to turn around now that Harper is older and has an obsession with cats. I can’t pinpoint exactly when it happened, but for the first year of her life, she had no idea Sanchez was even there. She didn’t want anything to do with him, and didn’t understand that he was a living thing that could actually play with her.

Then one day, something clicked and she realized just how cool it was to have her own personal play thing! And, despite the fact that she didn’t understand the difference between gentle petting and slapping (the title of my next sex memoir, btw), he never seemed to care. He would sit there and take everything she threw at him.

As time went on, she learned where his food and treats were, and she’d constantly go to the kitchen and say, “treats”. I thought it was cute to give her Sanchez’ treats so that she could give them to him. Unfortunately, she doesn’t understand that holding the treats in her hand, or putting them in her mouth is pure torture for Sanch. He politely follows her around waiting for her to put the treats on the floor LIKE ANY SANE PERSON WOULD YOU FUCKING SADIST.

We’re still learning that giving Sanchez his treats means giving them to him. They are not yours, they are not your baby dolls, they are for Sanchez. Thankfully, she eventually drops them one by one, and moves on to something else. Then it’s like a scavenger hunt for Sanchez, and he spends the remainder of the day trying to figure out where each gem has been dropped.

But perhaps the most tortuous thing Harper does to Sanchez has to do with water. Sanchez has always been a freak about water. Anyone who has come over to our house and used the restroom knows this. The cat will sit next to the bathroom sink for hours in hopes that someone will turn on the water for him. We used to do it, and then we stopped because he became obsessive about it. But the minute anyone gives him water from the sink (our friendly neighbor cat sat for us, and left the sink running for  Sanchez. All during the day!), he will sit there and cry for hours waiting … waiting. So we cut him off cold turkey.

Harper also likes water. It is hard to get her out of the bathtub because she just wants to sit and play with the running water. We’re still trying to teach her not to suck on her washcloth. Let’s be honest, she totally pisses in the tub, and drinking piss water out of the wash cloth that was just used to clean the lint from your neck is not your finest moment.

But, drinking water from the faucet isn’t as bad, so we indulge her from time to time.

And, it’s pure fucking torture for someone.

Have no fear. The minute we leave the bathroom, he gets his fix.

Aside from the occasional baby spit-up and two instances of projectile vomit when Harper was an infant, we have been super, super lucky in the puke department. I hate to even type that sentence because I’ve probably just assured some kind puke jinx.

But, I’m pretty sure this past Sunday night/Monday morning was our inauguration into for-real parenting. Like, the days of Harper’s bedroom smelling like freshly-bathed toddler and baby powder could be over. The days of our living room smelling like Cinnamon Yankee Candle and homemade pot roast  grilled cheese sandwiches could be done.

We hung out with some friends on Sunday evening. Harper went to sleep like normal when we got home. Then she woke up at midnight. As usual, Laef and I looked at each other, and rolled back over. I know what you’re thinking, that we are terrible people, but she normally puts herself back to sleep within 5 minutes. On this particular evening, however, 5 minutes became 15, and it was evident that something was amiss. Laef got up to check, came back and said, “She threw up. I need your help.”

The way he presented that statement, as if to say, “She peed her diaper, no big deal”, did not properly prepare me for what I was about to walk into.

I will spare you the details (there might have been whole blueberries stuck to Mickey), but we stripped the bed, changed her pajamas, threw everything in a plastic garbage bag. Her hair had barf in it. Her hands and face had barf. All of her stuffed animals were victims. There are simply zero words to describe the smell. Did I mention blueberries? I will NEVER eat blueberries in my life again.

I forgot to spare the details. Sorry.

Anyway, we cleaned her up, put new sheets on the bed, and got her into new pajamas. She didn’t have a fever, so we figured she just ate something that upset her stomach and that she would feel better. I rocked her back to sleep, but let me tell you, I was dry-heaving the whole time. Her hair didn’t have that sweet baby smell. Not even close. You never want to be dry-heaving while cuddling your child, but, I guess that’s the reality of parenthood, yo.

We all settled back into bed, and then about 10 minutes later, I heard it. It happened again. We did the whole drill again. And realized we were in for a long night.

She eventually fell asleep for a couple of hours, but by 7 a.m. she no longer wanted to kick it in her crib. I wonder why?

When she woke up, we decided to give her a small bottle of milk because she was hungry, but didn’t really want to eat her normal breakfast.

Milk. Was. A. Bad. Choice.

She immediately threw up all over the living room. When I say all over, that’s what I mean. Everywhere. Because of course we tried to pick her up and get to the bathroom, which did nothing other than assure that there was barf from the living room, to the hallway, to the bathroom. We put her in the bath tub, and she looked up, smiled, and said, “All done.”

So, now we had two garbage bags full of puke covered things.

Laef skipped off to work with nary a wave. I mean, I’m sure he wanted to hang back and bask in the new fragrance of our home, but my woeful eyes didn’t do much to persuade him. I really did not want to be stuck home alone with a projectile-vomitting toddler. I just don’t handle the vom well at all. I had to act quick, so I told Laef that we’d make his lunch and bring it to him at work. (This makes me sound like an awesome wife, but really I figured if I took her to Laef’s work, she could puke there instead.)

Thankfully, the milk incident was the last of the sickness. Harper went about her morning as though nothing had happened. We visited Laef at work, and she ran around playing, blowing kisses to his coworkers, fooling them all.

Later that afternoon when she went down for her nap, I put on my breathing mask, and made my way to the laundry room. I figured if anyone saw me, I could say I had allergies. Luckily no one was in the laundry room, because, let me tell you: THAT MASK WAS BUNK. When I opened the two garbage bags full of vomit-covered items, it was clear: THIS IS THE MASK I NEEDED. I was not prepared for what came out of those trash bags. I tried to throw everything into the washing machine as fast as I could and run away.

Just as I closed the lid to the washing machine, and removed my D-list mask, one of our neighbors rolled in. I don’t know how it came up, but he mentioned in conversation that his wife is pregnant, and the baby is due in May.

I am not sure if my face was the “this is so exciting you are going to love it, babies are amazing, life changing, wonderful things” or “omg, you poor motherfuckers, wait until you smell baby barf it is the worst thing, and I only slept two hours last night, enjoy every second until May see you later, bye!!!!!!!!”, but either way, I totally smiled and said Congratulations, you will love it.

HAHAHAHAHA.

But, seriously, freshly bathed, happy babies, really are THE best. xo

As I mentioned the other day, Harper is starting to say a lot of words. Having some kind of proper communication is helpful when figuring out what she needs or wants. The fact that she can say no when I ask her if she is hungry is very helpful. The fact that she says no to basically every question, however, is not as helpful.

They tried to give me Cheerios, but I said, No no no.

They tried make me go to bed, but I said No no no.

They tried to brush my teeth, but I said No no no.

They tried to wash my hands, but I said No no no.

Anyway, she has no idea what she is talking about. I guess yes is a hard word to learn so rather than point to the shoes that she DOES want to wear, we have to point to every single pair as she says no to each, and try to figure out which pair she said no to, but meant yes.

Hmmm…Was that a real no? Or was that the no she gives when we ask her if she wants a Popsicle?

She’s also learned to say, “mine”, which is also a SUPER fun word. EVERYTHING is mine.

Sometimes I want to say, “Chill, bitch. This coffee is not yours, it’s mine. Can mommy have one thing is this house that is not yours?”

No no no.

So, last night I was giving her a bath and she was playing with her favorite toy. I picked up one of her crayons (the kind you can write on bath tubs with), and started writing her name. I didn’t get past H when she dropped her other toys, grabbed the crayon, and said, “MINE.”

So, I picked up a different toy, and she took it from me, and said mine. Assuming that she was logical, I said, “Well, can mommy play with this toy if you are going to play with that one?”

No. No. no.

So there she sat holding so many toys so as to make sure I could have none saying “mine” and “no”.

Thank God when I sneeze she says “blethyou” and it is the cutest thing ever in the world or I might wonder who invented kids.

Laef has finally returned from an 8 day trip to China. Yes, it was wonderful to have the TV all to myself. It was also nice to go out for drinks on a Thursday and not have Laef sitting across the table from me doing the math as to exactly how much each Appletini costs when you factor in the babysitter wage. Is Laef the only person who thinks that if Harper is sleeping, the hourly rate for babysitting should drop down to $1.50? (Sidenote to Liz: I’m in your corner. I got yo’ back).

But, we missed him. I not only realized this when I was taking out the trash, cleaning the litter box and doing the dishes, but when I was taking a shower. Or should I say, when I wasn’t taking a shower. The absolute best part of him returning was taking a shower for longer than 2 minutes.

He arrived home on Wednesday night, and because our day care provider happens to be on vacation this week, Laef had the opportunity to reconnect with Harper by staying home with her on Thursday and Friday.

The questions I always ask when daddy is in charge are:

1. What is she wearing?
2. What is she eating?

I got a text on Thursday morning from the park with the following photo:

Shorts, shirt, watch, no shoes: PASS

This probably means that she ate a Popsicle for lunch, but there’s no photo evidence so there’s no need to worry.

I arrived home on Thursday evening, however, and it was a much different story. This is what I saw:

No shirt, No pants, no shoes, pink backpack (???): FAIL.

I guess the fact that she was in the comfort of her own home, and it was a scorching day in LA should make it OK. There is nothing like seeing your daughter looking like the next lead character in a Jon Krakauer novel.

After surviving day 1 with a toddler and jet lag, Laef and Harper embarked on Friday. They decided to make a trip to UCLA.

Wearing this:

Cute skirt, shirt, SHOES THAT ARE TOO BIG SO THEY ARE MacGYVERED WITH ATHLETIC TAPE???: OK, fine. Pass. Barely.

God, I love these two. SO. MUCH.

So the other day I was telling someone how I’ve stopped writing on my blog because I’m scared of being attacked by all those perfect mommy types who describe motherhood with words like bliss, euphoria and sunshine.

Don’t get me wrong. Harper has lots of shining moments.

But, sometimes, um, you know, she is a TOTAL DICK. And, sometimes, I am an ASSHOLE of a parent. And, it’s all so confusing when you don’t know what the F you are doing from one day to the next.

Thankfully, Harper has finally started using some of her sign language so we can at least figure out some things. However, she has her signs crossed, and apparently clapping means more, and the sign for more means hungry, but whatever, we have a Morris system, and it works.

I had recently come to a nice point in our mother/first-child relationship where I wasn’t stressing over her every move. Like, I had finally stopped walking behind her to make sure she didn’t fall and break an eye. I had finally let Laef’s mantra – “She’s a toddler now. She’s going to have falls. She’s going to be OK” rule the house. I was comfortable with letting her be a walking, falling, knee-scratched, shin-bruised 14 month old.

Then one morning while we were doing our normal morning routine, there was a loud sound followed by a cry. This was a real cry. Not the bullshit cry Harper does when I tell her that she can’t eat the roll of toilet paper or Sanchez’ food. (Although, those cries do sound like the world is ending). Anyway, the reality was that her chair had fallen over with her strapped into the high chair. She hit her head, and for a few seconds her eyes rolled back in her head and she lost consciousness.

We spent the morning at the ER. There’s no sadder place to be. There are tears and fears. There are what-ifs and hows and whys.

It was a giant relief to learn that Harper was fine. She had a bump on her head. By the time we left the hospital, her and Laef were back to their old ways, happy to be home.

I was fine too. After I drank a bottle of wine in my bed under the covers. I was trying to erase the memory from my brain. Then Laef brought Harper into the bedroom to show me her new daily required attire.

I don’t always laugh at Laef’s jokes, but this helped. It took a couple of days, but the flashbacks eventually faded. Now it’s a story we can tell later.

By the way, when you share a parenting story like that, you get to hear other people’s horror stories.

“My brother ate a piece of acid when he was 1, and he was OK.” – Anon

“My daughter ate a cigarette butt at the playground once.” – Anon

I guess after hearing a few gems from other people, I figured I could get back to the blog.

As Harper approaches her 1-year birthday, a sad reality is dawning on me – she has one friend.

Maybe her daycare peeps are her friends, but because I’m not friends with their mommies or daddies, they aren’t really her friends.

Unfortunately, for Harper I need to be able to hang with the parents if she’s going to be able to hang with the kid.

Call me selfish, but I’m not hanging out with the guy who tells me, “Yeah, she’s in, like, the 150th percentile for height” when talking about his daughter. I’m also not hanging out with the mom who says, “Yeah, we’re looking into preschools, and OH. MAH. GAWD. It’s sooo competitive.”

This is how I feel about even saying the word daycare before a child is ready.

So for the most part, my friends have remained the same, and most of my friends don’t have babies.

Now that Harper is getting older, play dates would be nice. So I’m putting myself out there, and trying to meet some cool parents.

Because it is awkward as fuck scoping people out at the playground and trying to determine if they fit your criteria.

“What about them?”- Me

“Do you see what he is wearing? That’s his playground attire.” – Laef

“Oooh what about them?” – Me

“That’s the lady we met when we were out on a walk with Harper, and made that racist comment about the people who work at Ralphs.” – Laef

“The fuck?” – Me

There we sat on the grass, perusing all the parents, sizing them up as if we were trying to determine if they were hot enough for a foursome, when in reality all we need is to be able to tolerate them (with clothes on) for like an hour each Saturday and Sunday.

There was another couple sitting near us on the grass, and after talking myself up for 5 minutes, I nervously approached.

“How old is your son?”

“He’ll be 1 tomorrow.”

“Aww. Congrats!!!” (in my head: Fuck I hate myself right now. Am I really engaging in this conversation hoping she’ll think I’m cool enough for her, and potentially give me her number at the end of this bullshit conversation?)

We chatted a little more, and things were looking promising when the Dad said that his 3 year old is way cooler than his 1 year old, and that basically being a parent to a person under the age of 1 sucks, and anyone who says it’s bliss is a liar.

And then the mom got up, and walked to their stroller. A few minutes later the 3-year old came over and said, “Dad, we’re leaving.”

That is totally the parental version of “She’s Just Not That Into You.” Dumped by a 3-year-old.

And so the journey will continue, and I will approach random strangers in the produce aisle hoping to get lucky.

10 Months Old

UCLA basketball season is over. The NCAA tournament is definitely more fun when you have a team to follow, but I can not lie: I am happy that the season is over, and that Laef is home more often. Yes, I’m happy to see his mug everyday, but, again, I can not lie: What I missed the most was his hands. As in: Please hold the baby while I do A, B, C. Or, please take out the trash, bring in the laundry, clean the litter box while I give the baby a bath.

So, anyway, Laef had his first day off from work on Tuesday. I assumed that he’d spend it eating CheezIts and watching Storage Wars while scratching his balls.

But, he proudly proclaimed that Harper would not be going to daycare, and that they were going to spend the “whole day together having so much fun!”

I immediately gave him my Parent of the Year banner, because, again, I can not lie: If I had a day off from work, Harper would be going to day care (at least for part of the day). Judge me all you want, but I’ve been looking for a spare 4 hours for a while now, and the only way to get that is by having a day off when day care is open. Which, frankly, never happens.

When I left for work Harper was eating a blueberry waffle wearing nothing but a diaper and a bib.

Laef: “I don’t want her jammies to get messy.”

Me: “OK, well, it’s a little cold.”

Laef: “Go to work.”

The key for any mother is this: Out of sight, out of mind.

If I don’t see that Harper is wearing stripes and plaids together, then it probably didn’t happen, and I will never know, and then I won’t lose sleep. If I don’t see that she ate a piece of cat food from the floor, then it definitely didn’t happen (unless I see it later in her poop).

Later that day, Laef brought Harper to UCLA to visit his coworkers. Then he brought her by my office to say hi. So. Cute. The two of them out and about spending their day together.

At 12:30, I told him he should probably get home because they’re now approaching the danger zone of her afternoon nap. If it’s me, I don’t fuck around with nap time. I stay within a 5 centimeter radius of the house so that we can be in the crib before the wheels come off.

Which is why I had to shoo them away. Because if I don’t see that it’s 1 p.m., and Harper is nowhere near her crib for her nap, then it’s not happening and I don’t have to worry about what this will mean for the rest of the day.

At 2 p.m. I got a call from Laef.

“I don’t know what to do. She fell asleep in the car, but only slept for 20 minutes. Now she doesn’t want to go back down in her crib.”

Me: “Well, she’s probably passed the point of napping, and will just stay up the rest of the day.”

Laef: “But, Dad needs a nap.”

Me: “Welcome to motherhood.”

So, they played and hung out for the rest of the afternoon. By the time I got home, it was evident that both were in desperate need of a nap.

Bed time came early. She fell asleep sitting up. Didn’t even bother to finish her bottle.

Daddy Day Care Day absolutely wiped her out.

Sometimes I think about how much money I would spend for free time.

When we were in Maui, Laef had Thanksgiving Day completely off. Just knowing that I’d have an extra set of hands to help made me beyond excited. And then Laef agreed to watch Harper for 1 hour so I could go to the pool. ALL BY MYSELF.

Then of course something happened with work, and he got called away seconds before I was to escape. I’m not kidding, I almost went Harper on his ass. I had to fight back a serious meltdown. I could taste that one hour, and it tasted like a Pina Coloda spiked with Banana Boat SPF 4.

In the end, he didn’t have to be gone very long, and when he came back I went to the pool.

And let’s be honest, I totally missed them both after 30 minutes. But since finding an hour seems impossible in real life, I forced myself to order another Corona and tough it out. It was so hard. Times were tough.

So, anyway, we came home from Hawaii on Friday. Laef had to work all day Saturday and Sunday. When he got home Sunday evening I handed Harper to him so that I could do a few things.

Laef: “OK, well, I need to poop first.”

Me: Side eye. “OK. I guess you can poop.”

10 minutes later I realize I am still on Harper duty.

Me: “Um, this is NOT one of those poops. This is not a “read the entire Week cover to cover poops.”

Laef: “What?”

Me” “NOW. If I can’t take a shower longer that 4 minutes, you certainly can NOT poop and enjoy a magazine for 10 minutes areyoufuckingkiddingme? Do you want me to cut you?”

I think it was at that very minute that Laef finally realized how valuable time is.

He was about as excited to sit on the toilet as I was to sit by the pool.

You are going to read some things here that might make you ew. Don’t worry, it’s not about sex. Because, um, well … what is sex?

It’s about Harper’s wandering mouth.

You are not allowed to type comments about how disgusting she is, or how I am subjecting her to diseases and filth. I can only control so many things in any given day. So far she has not died, gotten sick or swallowed her hand.

So, she’s a baby. Which means she drools bucket loads. And, to be honest, I hate baby drool. Except for Harper’s. Kind of the same way I don’t love having other people’s cats crawl on me. Sanch is the only one who can put is litter-box paws and stank ass anywhere near me.

Harper has been drooling for a long time. I mean, we’ve been using the term, “Maybe she’s teething” for like 3 months.

The bitch is not teething. She drools just because. I guess that’s what babies do.

However, over the last month she has gotten ambidextrous. She can use every finger and every toe to figure out a way to put EVERY F’N thing in her mouth. Sometimes she will put her foot so far down her throat she gags. Or she will gag on her fingers. At first I was worried, like, is she going to vom all over me from putting her fingers down her throat? Is she going to become the next great supermodel?

But, days go by and she doesn’t choke herself, and she doesn’t barf so I just laugh at her. “Hey dummy, chill on the fingers.”

Every time I put her anywhere, her first thought is “Where can I put my mouth?” When we did sleep training, I checked on her because she got quiet pretty easily. Well, she had her face smashed up against her crib sucking on the wood. When we do bath time, I can not get her to focus because she insists on leaning over and sucking on the tub. Or her bath book. Or the wash cloth. Reading books is a whole other issue. Apparently books taste better than rice cereal (which is about the only thing she doesn’t like putting her mouth on). I have seen my shoe in her mouth, Sanch’s tail, the Bjorn, the remote, my cell phone, her towel, my hair, my cheek, the baby monitor … basically whatever she sees.

I have given up freaking out.

Except for when we boarded a Southwest flight the other day. I put her on the seat so that I could put my bag away. I looked down and she had her mouth on the arm rest. I promised myself I wouldn’t be that spazz traveling mommy, but EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

I’m sure it’s all totally normal, but it cracks me up every time. Especially when I come into the living and see her licking the floor.

Licking floor > Fun toys.

To be fair, she is also starting to put some real food in her mouth.