Big news from the ranch this afternoon was that L has taken her vice-grip grabbing technique to new heights.

She grabbed my shirt. She grabbed her seahorse rattle. She grabbed her stuffed humpback whale. She grabbed her bottle. Hell, she grabbed my hair a bunch of times as well (if it weren’t so damn cute, it probably would have hurt).

I, always the neurotic man, have mixed feelings about all of this grabbing.

On the one hand, I’m delighted to see developments in her hand-eye coordination and depth perception; two important skills (especially if she is going to grow up to be the first female relief pitcher for the New York Yankees). On the other hand, I’m concerned that her grabbing prowess is going to lead to a bunch of cuts and black-and-blues on her cute little face.

Here’s the problem. When L grabs most objects, she immediately explores them the only way a four-month-old knows how: with her mouth. Sometimes, as in the case of my hair or shirt, she pulls it close and flicks at it with her tongue (not unlike a snake).

But in the case of the seahorse, or, say, some of her other rattles, she quite literally thrusts the object mouthward, bashing her face with toys.

Every time I see her doing this, I cringe. The hard plastic on toothless baby gums has to hurt like a sonofabitch. Yet L persists, happy as can be, whacking herself in the kisser without hesitation time and time again.

The fatherly instinct prompts me to stop her from self-bonking and protect her from harm. Rationally, however, I know this is a bad idea—if the rattles (and other objects) are going to hurt her, she needs to figure that out herself; my meddling will only retard that important trial-by-error process.

Powergirl tells me this development is a metaphor for life; if I don’t learn to give her space now, I never will. And so I bite my tongue (unwillingly), in the hopes that my poor baby won’t bite hers worse.