heavy baby

First of all- thanks for your prayers and support over the past few days! I was feeling a bit better yesterday, but last night had some pretty horrible sudden pain during the night- possibly one of those masses rupturing?...so today I'm experiencing a little setback/good bit of pain. Which leaves me stuck on the couch again, with nothing to do but blog...


Today's story comes to you in the spirit of Way Back When-sday. I can only say "in the spirit" because it's just a story-- no pictures. Well, there may be pictures somewhere (like at my parents' house), but I don't have them. Therefore I will do my best to paint a picture with my words.


I thought of this story yesterday when Allison and I were discussing the possibility of her mailing her annoying dog to me and how much that would torture the postal service workers that would have to listen to him whine from Texas to Georgia. This is a story that has absolutely nothing to do with me, as it is actually about my sister when she was a toddler. But it's a story my parents love to tell and I love to hear it-- hopefully you'll get a kick out of it, too.


So back in the late 80s, my sister was a wee little 2 or 3 year old and was absolutely obsessed with baby dolls. Now don't get me wrong- this obsession continued until she was at least in high school. But at the age of 2 or 3, when this story takes place, her obsession was considered age-appropriate, cute, and catered to by every present-buying person who knew her. She had a lot of 'babies.'


For one holiday or another, my Nana and Poppie presented Sarah with that ultimate gift of all gifts: a talking doll. (Note: I DID do a quick Google image search to see if I could find a picture of this doll. Go Google "1980s talking dolls" and see if you can sleep tonight. I dare you.) This doll was a large plastic thing that required something like 8 D batteries to help her do her thing. Therefore this doll was named "Heavy Baby" by my sister, for obvious reasons. It probably outweighed her.


Heavy Baby wasn't particularly cute, being entirely made of hard plastic, but boy did she talk. And talk. And talk. I'm not sure if Heavy Babies had some kind of sensor that let them know when it was a good time to chat it up or not, but our Heavy Baby was definitely an oversharing talk-a-holic. Her tinny voice could apparently be heard throughout our house at all hours of the day and night, and no one but Sarah could appreciate it.


But oh, how she appreciated it. Sweet little blonde Sarah just loved her Heavy Baby. She took her everywhere. She could not be bribed away to play with her other pretty (quiet) dolls. She only loved Heavy Baby. Which left my parents in a real conundrum, because Heavy Baby was annoying the CRAP out of them.


And then it happened. One day, Heavy Baby just stopped talking. Stopped! Fell silent. And Sarah was horrified. And my parents were thrilled. Secretly, of course. Because D batteries can only last for so long, and then there is blessed silence. We're so sorry, Sarah...but Heavy Baby is broken. You can still play with her and love on her, though! She just can't talk anymore. You see, Sarah didn't have much concept of batteries or what-not. She really thought Heavy Baby was broken. And my parents (justifiably so, in my opinion) just let her believe that. She had TONS of babies. She would get over Heavy Baby's vow of silence quickly, or just move on to another doll.


But get over it she could not. And eventually, my sweet grandparents heard about the demise of Heavy Baby-- from Sarah. That the beloved Heavy Baby was broken and could no longer speak. And about how Sarah's life had basically ended.


Infuriated,-- don't they make things that last anymore???--my grandfather did what any grandfather would do: immediately ran out and purchased a new Heavy Baby for his beloved granddaughter and shipped it. They live in Texas, you see...and we were all the way out in Georgia. 


My parents, however, did not know about Poppie's purchase. They only knew that one evening the doorbell rang and it was the UPS guy. Upon opening the door, they found a very agitated UPS guy. Not very friendly. Definitely on edge of-- shall we say-- going postal?


"Here!!" he rudely exclaimed as he shoved a large box at my dad.


"Ohh? Um, thanks..." my parents were puzzled, as they had not ordered anything lately and were not expecting any shipments.


"That...that thing...whatever is in that box...it has been making noise CONSTANTLY since I picked up this load in Atlanta. I hope that whatever it is, you know how to get it to stop."


And then my parents knew. Heavy Baby the Second, on their very doorstep.


A sinking feeling set in on their hearts as they knew what they were in for. 


But Sarah?? She couldn't have been any happier. She now had TWO Heavy Babies to lug around. And I guess my parents learned an important lesson about underestimating the resourcefulness of their kids. I'm guessing that the next time Heavy Baby's batteries died, they either told the truth or replaced them. No need to further torture the UPS guy.


The end.