Last week, I almost got laryngitis from yelling so much a bad cold/flu. Unfortunately for the family, I recovered. Fortunately for the family, they stayed well.
The only one who seemed to get the full-blown bug was the Maiden’s beloved new toy glow worm. Like a wind-up toy that’s running out of wind, the lullaby-singing, cuddly piece-of-annoyance-that’s-too-high-on-the-BFF-list-to-conveniently-lose began singing more slowly, straining to keep tune. Flats abounded, but it valiantly kept up its efforts, determined not to die until after the Maiden fell asleep.
Then, of course, we dissected it, removed its heart, and replaced the batteries. For the second time in eight days. That $6.99 Christmas bargain doesn’t seem like much of a bargain anymore; it guzzles more juice than an old clunker does gasoline. Too bad the Cash for Clunkers program didn’t have a Noisy Annoying Toy category.
We’ll remember that next election time.
The Man seemed to take a grisly pleasure in removing its innards (he reads too many zombie comic books). “We should replace it with a rubber brain,” he said. But I felt a little sorry for the poor wee thing, undergoing heartless surgery with nary an anesthetic in sight. The problem is, as irritating as its incessantly sweet tunes are, I can’t hate the thing– no matter how much I may want to. For one thing, it’s very, very cute. It has these big Bambi eyes, but unlike with Bambi, you don’t harbor a secret desire to have a wolf come along and finish it off (you know you felt that way during the movie. Admit it.)
Plus, when I was a kid, I had a glow worm, too. It was called Glowa, and luckily for my parents, it didn’t sing, it just glew, as my sister used to say. I loved my Glowa, sniff, sniff, and it doesn’t help when the Maiden gives me the reproachful eye and asks me why I didn’t take care of my glow worm so that I could someday give it to my little girl, because she is going to do that with her Glowie when she’s a big mommy and has her triplets Rose, Angel and Flower (don’t ask).
So my glow worm tolerance levels have a slight guilt aspect going for them, too. Sadly for our bank account, they’re high enough to support the doll’s battery acid addiction.
Speaking of which, those recently replaced batteries should be good for another five days, but Glowie still needs another minor surgery. One week of lovin’ and it has that slightly greyish tint, something of a ten-years-rolling-around-on-that-questionable-daycare-floor shade.
It’s time to head to the washing machine. If Glowie’s going to be a legacy to my grandkids, it’s going to be a clean one.