Let's take a moment to discuss the myriad things that have made contact with Robert's mouth. The oral fixation is in full bloom, people. Mostly, it's the licking. He licks his friends, he licks their mothers. He licks the fridge. He licks bus windows. He licks his snow boots. He'd lick the cat if she'd let him, but she's still smarting from the glue fiasco. If you are to pass muster in his addled worldview, you must survive a rigorous taste test, filth or no filth.
Then there's the added affliction of mouth gravity. If you measure up to the lick test, and your volume is less than 2.6 cubic inches, you have an inevitable date with the insides of his plump little cheeks. If Robert sneaks off on his own for a minute or two and we call out to ask him what he's up to, it's even money the response will be "Nuffinmmg!"
Case in point: Just before dinner, we saw Robert chewing on something. I told him to spit it out, and he obliged:
Before I recognized it as the gloppy remains of a lime-green postcard, I asked Robert (for I think the 10,000th time—I'll have to check my records) what he had just put in his mouth. And he replied, "It used to be a card, but I made broccoli out of it!"
