Though the congestion and the crusty morning-eyes have overstayed their welcome, we think the turtle's finally starting to feel better. There's nothing sadder than red, tired eyes, stuck shut with goo. And boy has he had just about enough of the face wiping. Three weeks ago he was patient. He didn't necessarily relish the constant attention - I mean who likes to have saline squirted up their nostrils and muck pulled from their eyelashes? - but he tolerated it. Not any more. The turtle screams bloody murder at just the sight of a washcloth. Poor thing. As tired as Chris and I are of his being sick, the turtle feels ten-fold.
But even in the light of the coughing and the wheezing and the sleepless nights, the three of us have still managed to experience moments of pure joy. Like last night's bath in the "big boy" tub where the turtle had plenty of room to kick and splash and throw his boats around. Or his fascination with his toy box. Not the toys inside but the actual container. We tip the box (really just a fabric covered cube) over on its side and let the turtle pull everything out one by one. Once he's done so, he pulls the box close to his chest and chews on one side. This little game has only confirmed that Santa will most likely deliver empty boxes this year, knowing perfectly well that the turtle will find much more enjoyment in the container than its contents.