Caterpillar Torture

Early spring in North Carolina is a delightful time. The air is warm, everything's blooming, and those pesky mosquitoes seem to still be slumbering. We spend most of our days outside where, to D's delight, about a zillion caterpillars have hatched and are climbing all over the patio near the sandbox. He is enthralled with them. In his big pink cup, he collects as many as he can possibly hunt, provides them with choice grass, leaves them in my care to ride his scooter for a while, and checks back in on them regularly. Z, on the other hand, prefers a more intimate level of connection. She gets down nose-to-nose with a caterpillar, right up in it's "face," and yells "HI!! bi-bi-bi-bi" [caterpillar]. Not sure which caterpillars are most tormented, the ones in a pink cup with 100 of their closest friends, or the ones who experience heart failure when yelled at by a one year old.