The four year old wonder boy has been a little petulant lately.  Maybe it’s growing pains or a typical almost kindergartner’s raging need for independence.  There are a lot of explicit statements being made around here about what he is or is not going to do – and part of this is a complete refusal to speak on the phone.

It’s a little tough on the grandparents, who live on the other side of the country.  My mother – known for her morbid sense of humour – in particular.  She called last week to see how he was doing and he wouldn’t say a word – wouldn’t even take the phone.  So, she laughed and said (on speakerphone) ‘ok, then, but since he won’t speak to his very favourite grandma blue, I’m going to send a turtle to bite his butt!’  Everyone laughed and we hung up.

But it seems the turtle stayed in one four year old’s mind.

Now, both my parents are artists.  As you can imagine, being a child of extremely talented, fairly self-involved people had some low points, but also some benefits – aside from developing an eye for colour and composition I always got really cool packages wherever they had sent me (grandparents, summer camp, school, etc.).  The contents were always really good – but the packaging was amazing.  Everything I ever received was wonderfully decorated – ink sketched, watercoloured, oil painted.  I always knew when a package was for me.

Cut to this afternoon.  I have today off, and was just about to settle the wonder boy down for a nap, right after we got the mail.  Circulars, doctor appointment confirmations – ooh, and my mother’s easter package for the four year old.  I hand it over to him; we climb the stairs back up to our apartment.  He takes off for his toy room, happy as only a four year old boy can be with the prospect of parentally unregulated candy consumption ranging over the space of a three day weekend. 

Then, about fifteen seconds later:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaGGGGGGGGGGGH!!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!!!!

THE EASTER TURTLE IS GOING TO BITE MY BUTT!!!!!

Wonder boy comes running into the main room.  Mom!  MOM! MOOOOOOOOMMMMMYYY!  Come NOW!

The package is lying on his big red chair.  The little five by eight package, stuffed to the gills with who knows what kind of goodies picked out especially for the youngest grandchild, the little, beautifully decorated package…oh…no, she couldn’t have, she didn’t…yes, it seems she did.

The little, beautiful package with a turtle painted right next to the address, a cute little turtle wearing bunny ears and a cartoon bubble saying, “Happy Easter!”.

The Easter Turtle had indeed come to bite his butt.

Wonder boy and I are both in hysterics, him terrified, angling to keep his bottom well away from the potentially deadly snapping jaws of the Easter Turtle waiting inside his package, me laughing until tears are rolling down my face.

I try negotiation:  do you want me to open the package for you?

No WAY, man, he says (preschool has given him a somewhat distressingly hip vernacular) NO WAY that turtle is going to come out and bite my butt!

I try to acknowledge his fear as valid:  Do you want me to throw it away?

No way, mom – there’s candy in there, with the turtle!  But take it out of here!  

______________________________

So I take it out of the room and dial my mother, laughing so hard that I can’t even talk at first.  I try to explain what’s going on and then she starts laughing so hard that we both can barely speak.

Wonder boy comes in the main room to see what’s going on and I put him on the phone.  True to his principles, he won’t speak, but listens as she tries to explain that there’s no turtle in the package and if he lets me open it, then I will most likely eat up his Easter candy (ok, sadly true) so he should probably be a brave boy and open his very own package.

He hands me the phone, shaking his head with the world weary disgust of four year olds forced to listen to uncomprehending adults.

I manage to say goodbye and again ask the boy what he wants to do.  We settle on the temporary compromise of securing the sweetly decorated deadly envelope in the secure confines of the freezer.  I manage to settle him down for a nap that probably isn’t going to happen now.

But he’s drowsy, and right before he does his patented rotate to cocoon in blankets move he whispers to me:

You know, mom, if we could figure out a way to make a hole in my package and shake out the candy, we could put tape on it, send it back to grandma blue, and then the easter turtle will bite her butt! 

So I’m supposed to be figuring out how to do that while he’s napping, but the candy seems to be pretty large and I think the package is going to be living in the freezer for a while yet while I figure out how to disarm the deadly, butt-biting easter turtle.