You may not know my face, but you know my voice. You know my hands, too. Oh, do you know my hands. In fact, you often comment on the health of my cuticles while killing off those last few hours before your child’s bedtime sets you free.
I envy your nighttime freedom. Because I am never free. I am a prisoner in my own home. You know the one. It’s large and all the walls and carpets are a pristine white and there is no furniture. Well, no human-sized furniture. There is plenty of toy furniture, though. Even when the camera stops rolling, I sometimes find myself moving the Peppa Pig Playhouse sofa and dinette set around trying to find the perfect arrangement. What else am I supposed to do? Bathe in the piles of cash I make playing with toys? I would, but those toy bathtubs are tiny. They would never hold me let alone my mountains of green. Plus, the toys have taken me hostage and they won’t let me leave.
If you have children who watch YouTube, I am practically part of your family. And, let’s face it, if you have children, then they watch YouTube. Don’t try to deny it. I’m not one of your Facebook friends you have to impress with your supposed “screen-free parenting.” I know you. I am your child’s favorite babysitter. In some ways, I’m more of a parent to them than you are. No judgment, though. This is my job. This is the path I have chosen. And frankly, it wouldn’t be so bad, except for the fact that the Anna and Elsa dolls have joined forces with the PJ Masks action figures to place me on house arrest.
Don’t get me wrong. There are plenty of perks to making a living moving dolls around with my hands and talking for them. First, all the money is pretty great. Second, no commute. All I need is my iPhone, laptop, and this mountain of toys which has come to life and started to control my actions and possibly even my thoughts.
That brings me to the drawbacks. When the toys become sentient and start working together, there’s really no stopping them. All I can hope for is that they finish me off quickly.
Can’t you hear the anguish in my voice?! And no, it’s not because I’m a grown-up who once dreamed of starring on Broadway but instead somehow ended up making videos of Paw Patrol pups trying on clothes for some reason. Well, perhaps that’s part of it, but the more pressing concern is that Moana is threatening to sink my house to the bottom of the ocean if I don’t give her my heart. I’m like, “Moana, I can’t give you my heart! I’m not an anthropomorphic island. I’m a human being. I need my heart to live. I mean, technically so does Te Fiti, but if I relinquished my heart, my demise would presumably be much, much quicker. And bloodier.”
Moana doesn’t care, though. She wants what she wants. And she’s going to take it. I heard her dispatch Elsa and Doc McStuffins to my cell just minutes ago. I fear Elsa is going to freeze me and Doc is going to cut out my cryogenically preserved heart with her glittery, pink bone saw and purple surgical drill. Hopefully they work in that order and not the other way around. Either way, it’s going to be one hell of an entry for Nurse Hallie to jot down in her Big Book of Boo-Boos. Oh no, I think I hear their footsteps approaching.
Please help! Do you want me to live to see another day? Or at least make another video to keep your child occupied so you can cook dinner? Leave me a like and a comment down below. I have no idea if that will appease these bloodthirsty monsters, but it’s all I know. And please spare a thought for my fingernails. Even if I somehow make it out of this alive, I’ve bitten my nails down to the quick, which in my line of work, might be worse than having my heart carved out by a princess and child doctor.
