My sister's second-born child turned one today.
Yesterday, I was babysitting both of her kids, and the older one (as usual) wanted to play with the turtles. He loves the turtles like I love Cherry Coke, Indiana Jones, and feeling sorry for myself. In the kitchen, I watched the boy try to juggle a large and a small one in front of the toddler, who kept reaching for them.
At one point, I said, "Quit hogging them, give one to your brother." So, for some reason, he handed the larger turtle over to the baby, and for some reason, the child immediately put the turtle in his mouth. Well, nature fought back, and the poor boy began screaming as the turtle clamped its jaws down on the 364 day old's lip. I had to pull it off him and see if I could offer him comfort until his mother came back.
There were tears and there was blood, and yeah, he shrieked for a minute or so, but it was nothing compared to how he screams at night, each and every night, as if he just returned from a Japanese ghost movie marathon.
I had to explain why my sister's son looked like Joaquin Phoenix for his birthday pictures today, but what's worse, when I was carrying him around the house today, I took him over to the turtle tank . . . and he immediately reached for one. Sigh.
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