Chalk.
I came around the corner into the living room last evening to discover Emmett — who, only seconds before, had been sitting in the middle of the floor — standing at his sister’s blackboard easel. He had his hands on the chalk tray and a piece of chalk in each palm. I pried the chalk from his hands, yanked him away from the easel, and plopped him back down on the floor. It wasn’t until I was walking back to the kitchen that I looked over my shoulder and saw him chewing (well, gumming) on something. Sure enough, one of the pieces of chalk he’d grabbed was wet on the end and showed telltale signs of baby gnawing. I fished a little piece of pink chalk out of his cheek and then stood up so I could stare down in wonder at this little rascal. Chalk contains some essential mineral, or something, doesn’t it? Right?