So last night The Boy I sit for reached into the recycling bin in his kitchen and sliced the bejeeezus out of his finger on a metal can. I arrived today to find the kids smiling and happy, and the boy with a hospital ID on his ankle and his finger wrapped in Band Aid. He'd taken four stitches, but was handling it very well.
"The T-shirt is ruined, though; it's covered in blood," the dad said. I was disappointed; it was one of my favorites, a yellow T-shirt with a cartoon picture of fries and a shake, and some Japanese lettering.
If it were up to me, I'd keep the shirt, get a fabric pen, and write "baby's first mass murder" on the front.
But that's just me.