I am rapidly becoming convinced that boys and turkeys have a lot in common.
They spend the first quarter of their lives trying all kinds of creative ways to kill themselves.
A couple weeks ago, the Moose wandered casually over to the diaper-changing-station, and glanced over his shoulder to make sure we were properly admiring his ‘cool’. Then he grabbed the bottle of baby powder (cornstarch, not talc), and knocked back a big slug. I don’t think it didn’t taste exactly as he expected, given his reaction.
Maybe it was the texture.
Then he got into a head-butting contest with the gravel driveway, and lost. That gave him a lovely road-rash on the forehead. This was quickly followed by an attempt to surf on the arm of the recliner that sits next to the hearth. That crash added a debonair scrape below his eye.
I’ve given up explaining all the details and just tell my friends that I beat him with a skillet.
Tonight, he decided that his beverage of choice would be the tea tree oil I keep in the medicine cabinet. The nice lady at Poison Control didn’t think the couple of drops he got before he started choking and spitting would hurt him any.
The little turkey.