So last night I heard it singing like it was possessed. Very deep, slow voice. Either the batteries were low or the Devil was telling my daughter to puke in my shoes again. It stopped mid-song. My daughter began sobbing quietly. She picked it up and brought it to me. Kids think Daddies can fix anything. She'll figure out what horse crap that is by the time she's two.
This one was easy. Just a battery replacement. The compartment was located on the doll's back, and I used a screwdriver to pry the 3 AA batteries from inside. I pried too hard and sent the batteries flying all over the floor.
Three batteries out, three batteries in. But wait! Isn't this the opportunity I'd been waiting for? Why put them in? Kill it. Tell her you can't fix it. Tell her you'll buy her a new toy that sings better songs and doesn't fill your heart with bloodlust every time you see it.
But then I looked down at my daughter and saw the sadness in her face. How could I kill her favorite toy? Such sorrow in those eyes...until I realized she was sad because she was having trouble chewing one of the batteries I'd dropped on the floor. Sigh.
Bottom line, I did the right thing for once. I put in the new batteries. The Teletubby showed its gratitude by singing my least favorite song. If it had a human hand it would have flipped me off. If it was anatomically correct, it would have pissed in my face. Someday, you son of a bitch. Someday. The kid isn't going to want you forever. You'll get yours. My mind immediately went back to planning the toy's untimely death.
I gave the doll back to my anxious daughter and said, "Here you are Elena. What do you think of that?"
I didn't need her to tell me what she thought of that. I could smell it. She'd taken a giant crap in her diaper. Hmm, maybe I could get even with that little bastard after all...
