Adoption.

My sister is a 9 year old mother.
You read that right. Let me repeat myself for clarification.
My sister is a 9 year old mother.
Of a snail.
My sister is the 9 year old mother of a snail.
"You must mean you're the snail's owner," I corrected her, "Because you can't be a snail's mother. It's an animal. It's your pet."
"Whaddya mean, I can't be it's mother?" She demanded, "I raised it. I loved it. I put air holes in its jar."
"You've had it for roughly 5 minutes. And you're not it's mother. It's a freaking SNAIL."
"Fine, then. I've adopted it," She gave a triumphant smile.
"YOU CAN'T ADOPT A SNAIL."
"Well, I'll be the first."
My sister is the 9 year old mother of a snail.
She held up the little jam jar that was now the poor snail's home up to my face.
"LOOK AT IT. ISN'T IT THE CUTEST THING YOU'VE EVER SEEN?"
No I thought to myself. But I resisted the urge to gag and peeked at the jam jar. My sister had set up a modest home for the snail, complete with 4 leaves, a twig, and a piece of paper.
"For it to pee on," she explained, pointing to the tiny paper.
"Right," I said, slowly backing away."
"YOU CAN TOUCH IT IF YOU WANT. TOUCH IT!"
"I don't want to touch your freaking snail! PEOPLE EAT SNAILS IN FRANCE."
Esther shuddered, "How dare you? Refer to my child as FOOD? FOOD OF THE FRENCH!"
"It's not your child, Esther. It's a snail."
"ITS MY BABY. ITS MY ADOPTED KIN. I LOVE HER."
I stole another glance at the pathetic object of our conversation. It's little bug eyes looked at me sadly.
"LET ME OUT!" the eyes seemed to be saying.
"Esther. You have to let the snail go."
"NO!" Esther snatched the jar off the table and held it protectively to her chest, "If I told you to throw your baby away, would you do it? WOULD YOU?"
"That's not the same thing - "
"AND HOW DARE YOU EVEN THINK THAT," she yelled at me, "WHY DO YOU HATE THIS SNAIL SO MUCH, ANYYWAY? DO YOU HAVE SOMETHING AGAINST SNAILS?"
I shuddered inwardly. Memories from my childhood flooded my mind. Me sitting in the backward, a snail-filled leaf in my lap. Me putting salt on the snails, me ripping the shells off the snails' backs, me ripping the snails into several pieces and trying to see if regeneration would occur, me trying to feed the snails people food, me bringing the snails home, the snails withering away to nothing...
"DO YOU?" Esther screamed, bringing me back to the present.
"No," I said, turning away from her, "Keep your stupid snail. It won't last long anyway."
But Esther didn't hear my words, "PLAY TIME!" she shrieked, grabbing the jam jar from the table and screwing it open, "PLAY TIME FOR SNAILIE!"
Yes. That is the snail's name. Snailie. Obviously, my little sister is not the most imaginative child of the bunch.
"COME ON, SNAILIE! LET'S GO ON MY SWING SET!"
My sister is the 9 year old mother of a snail named Snailie. Oh, joy.