The Hungry Tiger

"Fat babies! Don't they sound delicious?"
~The Hungry Tiger, "Ozma of Oz" by L. Frank Baum


I have to say that I have an understanding with The Hungry Tiger for the first time in my life. When I hold Hyrum in my arms and see those big ol' dark eyes looking up at me in wonder and curiosity and the teensiest bit of puckish glee, I want to eat my son. 


Just grab him up in my arms and squeeze him and squeeze him first, then inhale a few hairs off the top of his head--the ones that are showing some faint promise of gold. Then I would start with the toes, all ten of those wee little piggies, and take time savoring the dimples in his knees and the rolls thereon, especially the ones that have tan lines where his fat little crevices don't see the sun. Of course I would have to skip the torso for a minute to enjoy the rest of the Dimple Trifecta: his dimples in the backs of his elbows, and the pair on either side of his smooth, delicious little face-cheeks. But don't worry! I'd be back around the little ribs for a side of zerberts (called "blowing a raspberry" in normal families) and then bury my nose in the neck.


Ah, the baby's neck. There is no place on earth more sweet, more soft, more smooth and delectable than this small little spot. I speak specifically of the crevices that get lost down below the fat of the cheeks and that, no matter how much you scrub-a-dub-dub them out, always smell faintly of whatever it was he ate and puked up last. I'd bury my nose and take a great greedy sniff of that smell and close my eyes, fearing that if I opened them that the memory would leak out. 


And while my eyes are squeezed shut, the boy gurgles, a sound that means he hasn't yet learned to laugh but the glee has to squeak out somewhere, awash in spit bubbles and sandwiched between a set of dimples that break my heart.