Once upon a time at Christmas Gan-ma Das-ee got O a little red remote-control fire truck. After three hours of very vigorous play, the truck ceased to work so Gan-ma Das-ee took it back, explained what had happened, and exchanged it for a new one.

The new truck hid in the garage for a few months, safely out of sight, out of mind, until this past weekend, when O “discovered” his “fire-guck!” hiding in one of the bins. After two solid days of pestering, he agreed to swap his cars and floor mat for the truck.

The truck came out and was raced around the kitchen, around the living room, used to taunt and torment the baby (“no baby! mine-truck!”), and was finally put on the bookcase (out of baby’s reach) so it could recover from a hard day’s use.

This morning, the little truck’s batteries were nearly dead. They were so spent the little truck could hardly roll over the tile, much less the carpet. O was crushed. He DEMANDED that mommy or daddy “call gan-ma!” so that “gan-ma fix tuck!”

The truck is now “going to grandma’s” (the garage) to get fixed (new batteries…eventually). Gan-ma Das-ee, be prepared for an upset  O to call you later, he really wants you to fix his truck.