Belly button

I was browsing the web at my desk and noticed that it had gotten quiet. For the past half hour, Philip has alternated between racing back and forth from dining room to living room with spurts of intense, giggling play with a toy from his basket. Not only did I not hear Philip, I didn’t see him either. I had to peer around the corner to spot him sitting on the couch. Despite his monkey-boy climbing skills, I still feel pride when I realize that he has climbed up on the couch all by himself. For once, he was not climbing up on the arm in an effort to sit on the top of the couch and with the goal of giving me a heart-attack.  Instead, he was sitting calmly against the pile of blankets-playing with his belly button.

I don’t know why, but belly buttons gross me out. Not the actual part of one’s anatomy, mind you. Granted, I don’t want to see some stranger’s lint-filled or dirty belly button. But I hate hearing stories about people sticking things in their belly buttons. It makes me queasy. And of course, shirt-less Philip was busy exploring his with his finger.

I won’t try to stop him, but, now that I have captured this on film, I don’t think I’ll watch him do it again.

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