I was 16 years old when my 2nd nephew was born. I had my license so, when he later learned how to dial my phone number and asked to be picked up, I was there to rescue him.

“Titi, can you come get me?”

I used to call him my sun. It was a play on the word son because he was with me so often, people actually thought he was my son.

I have a million stories about him but this blahg is about one fond memory in particular. When he was a tiny baby, barely sitting up, I helped him learn to turn the handle on the Jack in the Box and I’d laugh my ass off every time he’d jump when that ugly clown popped out. His startled surprise would always turn into a big open-mouthed grin with dark brown sparkling eyes.

More than the scare, he absolutely HATED trying to get that spring-loaded clown back into the box. Inevitably, the clown’s waving arms with the flat plastic hands stuck out and prevented the lid from latching.

I tried to show him how to fold the arms in before pushing the bobbling head down but his frustration would grow with each unsuccessful try. His little face would scrunch up in anger and he’d end up banging on that lid over and over while the clown seemingly laughed at him.

Titi had had enough. I grabbed some scissors and snipped the clown’s empty, fabric arms right off. Problem solved! Now, he could enjoy scaring himself and I could enjoy that look on his face.

Worth it.