First it was Elmo. I think Dyami started it.
Dyami as Elmo: "Hey, Lucy! Elmo wants you to take a bath!"
Lucy jumped up and ran to the bathtub. Which meant I didn't mind keeping up the Elmo voice on my own while she got clean.
Then it was the puppets my aunt made Lucy for Christmas. Three adorable felt puppets, complete with attitudes (the giraffe, Giraffy, sports pipe-cleaner glasses) that I'd kind of like to burn now. Because of the weeks of activities that needed one of the three amigos to narrate. Freddy Frog reads a story! Henrietta Hippo dances to The Killers! Giraffy supervises puzzle time!
But now it's like the gremlins have been loosed on my house. Because it's not just the obvious candidates for animation. Now it's anything and everything. My shoes. My hand. My finger. My newly pedicured toes. The car. The pretend hammer (ie chapstick). The stick-turned-horse. Each must accompany us on our journey through the day, complete with high- or low-pitched voice, witty reparte, and endless replies to questions like, "So, Hammer! How is your day out? Where is your mommy?"
Oh--yes. I forgot. Each and every object also has a mommy and daddy that must be provided with more voices, more replies, more banter.
It's gotten to where I want to run far, far away every time Lucy picks up a new--whatever--and says, in a hopeful voice, "Spoon? You talk?"
No, Lucy. The spoon does not talk. The spoon is sleeping. Along with (yes) its mommy and daddy.
Also, your mommy. She has gone to sleep, too. Because of the large dose of Valium she just ingested. Hopefully she will sleep for the (how many more??) weeks it takes to move on to a different obsession.