He May be Two, But Trust Me: He's Trouble

My nephew and I are in a fight. He's two years old and some might say that puts him at an unfair disadvantage, but he's crafty and calculating and we're so in a fight.

Let me back up a bit.

When I was staying with my sister and brother-in-law in May, I was getting ready for bed when a horrifying sight caught my eye. There, on the bookcase in the room where I was sleeping, was a book about achieving goals. Its author: none other than Derek Jeter.

Now, for the average Joe, the sight of such a book may not be such a big deal. But, I am a Red Sox fan. And if you want to know the true meaning of the word "superstitious," you probably need to meet a Red Sox fan. There was no way -- repeat, no way -- I was going to sleep in the same room as a book authored by a Yankees front man.

I did what any normal person would do in such a situation -- I chucked the book out into the hallway and closed the door behind me.

All was fine until the next morning, when my niece and nephew came down to see me and discovered the book in the hallway.

"What's this?" asked my niece Grace.

"It's nothing -- don't touch it!" I yelled, like a crazed maniac.

"Why not?" Grace said, picking it up and attempting to hand it to me. I jumped out of its path. My nephew Ryan picked it up and threw it at me; I again jumped out of the way.

"Gracie, remember when you touched the hot stove and got your fingers burned?" I asked.

Tears began to well in her eyes at the memory. She solemnly nodded her head.

"There are some things you can't touch because they'll hurt you," I calmly explained. "I don't want you to get hurt, so I don't want you touching this book, okay?"

The subtle glare I received from my sister at the moment suggested she was maybe a little less than impressed with my analogy.

Gracie started to back away from the book, but little Ryan was undeterred. He seemed fascinated by my refusal to touch the book.

"Tay's book!" he started yelling, trying again to hand it to me.

"No, no, no!" I yelled. "That is NOT Tay's book! Don't touch it, Ryan!"

"Tay's book!" he yelled, coming closer and closer. Desperate, I jumped up on the bed.

He followed my lead and cornered me. I put all my pillows around me to form a barricade from his advances.

"Tay's book, Tay's book, Tay's book!" he yelled, reaching beyond the Wall of Pillows to bring the book in direct contact with my face.

"No!" I yelled, burrowing myself under the covers.

An eternity later, my sister rescued me and placed the book in an undisclosed location. Traumatized, I didn't talk about the incident for the rest of the trip.

Confident that it was behind me, I moved on with my life. That is, until yesterday, when I received a mysterious package in the mail. The return address from Arizona seemed safe enough -- but when I ripped through the tape, a gasp fell out of me.

There, staring back at me, was a book that never had any business being in my hands. I dropped it immediately, then saw the post-it message.

"Ryan insists that this is TAY'S book and that we needed to mail it to you," the note read.

Very funny, Ryan. Very freaking funny.