If you have kids or just have anything a kid has ever colored on, threw up on, or otherwise shat upon, you might be interested in this site: shitmykidsruined.
And while we’re on that subject, this is what greeted Gabe when he walked into Asher’s bedroom first thing yesterday morning. That limp purple thing was a brand new, 2-day-old Barney doll. And all that white stuff everywhere, and I do mean everywhere, is his guts. Barney is dead.
It would be wrong to truly blame Asher for the Barney Incident of 2010. After all, the doll was a piece of shit.
I ordered it from amazon.com after his original Barney was left behind at my parents after a visit. He kept asking for “Harney,” and, like any parent, I wanted him to be happy. Or at least NOT unhappy. I went online and discovered one that was too cheap to be believed. I bought it anyway.
It came to our doorstep made of some sort of purple material so pathetic, it looked like it’d been cut from an old water-damaged carpet in Prince’s basement. It was stuffed with what felt like newspaper, and, as you can clearly see, turned out to be even worse: smooshed-up styrofoam. Ahhhh, cuddly.
Barney also had a finishing seam on the back of his neck that appeared to have been sewn by a set of uncoordinated goat toes. And just under that…a small hole.
Why would you give your child a toy like this, you ask? He saw it before I could hide it. And believe you me, there is no getting between a toddler and a toy to which he is unnaturally attached.
I had every intention of ordering one not manufactured by drunk monkeys to replace it, and snatching this one back from Asher when he was asleep to send back. I even got so far as to send the company that made the doll a note about the piss-poor quality, which shockingly, they still have not replied to.
But a few hours later, he was asleep, I was exhausted and I forgot to go back upstairs and get it.
The next day, he never let go of it except for meals, when he placed Barney in the chair opposite him at the dining room table. He even carried the doll, who is half his height and equal to his girth, all the way around our block on our after-dinner walk. Then I let him take it to bed again. By this time, I had completely forgotten about one small but important thing. That little hole at the bottom of that crude seam on the back of that purple neck.
Uh-oh.
The next morning, I was out on a long walk with our hyperactive terrier mutt and when I came through the front door, I was greeted by a request to immediately go look at Asher’s room. That’s usually code for, you forgot to turn the diaper genie and our poo-eating dog has stolen a dirty diaper, eaten its contents, and shredded it to bits all over the rug. But she had been with me.
I went up the stairs with the respect a request like this deserves (i.e. dread), cracked open the door, and said, “Oh. My. God.” In fact, I couldn’t say anything else for some time.
When I eventually did, it was a barrage of words no longer kosher in our house, directed towards the amazon seller who will soon be getting a package in the mail.
And so Barney is taking the long road home in a cardboard box, back from whence he came. Ashes to ashes. Styrofoam to styrofoam.
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