There's no glamour in it

Dear Wiggles,

It is by no means your fault that I have a nearly-two-year-old whose behavior today has caused my brain to ooze from my ears. Whose behavior today is solely responsible for this bone-tired weariness I feel, despite having a) slept in (relatively speaking) and b) had a nap [on the floor of the boy's room, while he played on and around my sleeping form, from time to time making loud announcements into my eye or cheek]. In fact, it is solely my fault (and, er, H.'s fault, equally). But in the last 24 hours I have had to endure your inane songs and inane-er videos, about forty minutes' worth, over and over again. And while two of you seem like nice enough chaps (Greg, you are particularly nice and I can guess you are the favorite among the mothers), the other two of you (I'm not going to name names) seem strikingly less so, and one of those two is fairly creepy. Also, you are blander than white bread. Sesame Street, you ain't.

None of which is to say that my boy doesn't enjoy you; obviously he does, or I would have no reason to write this very ungracious letter. But someone's got to be the scapegoat here, and I'm afraid it's you, Wiggles. I am beat to hell on this fine Saturday evening; my offspring has driven me to madness, and the only outlet I have is to lash out at an innocuous children's show. From now on, I shall be referring to you as the M.F.W.'s. Yes, that's right: in fact, I am stooping to such ridiculous levels.

My deepest apologies, I am normally much nicer and more gracious,

Emma

PS, I don't care what you did on your holiday, and I'm not particularly concerned with what sort of hat you wear when you are out in the sun, nor am I interested in attending any dance parties hosted by dinosaurs. Thank you all the same.