I borrowed Naughty Noo-Noo from the library for Shef. He’s partial to The Teletubbies – “Tu-bbies,” he says, pressing play on the DVD machine when he sees the box – and I don’t mind them.



Because they debuted during my college nannying days, I’m used to their weird utterances and their big hugs. I understand what Lala is talking about when she says, “Tubby Custard.” I remember the Tinky Winky gay rumors and the subsequent uproar from the right wing whack jobs.

Molly, on the other hand, doesn’t quite understand the appeal.

“What the HECK?” she says, shaking her head, unable to embrace the baby in the sun and the psychedelic counting exercises played out on bright pink backgrounds. She sits there with pained, constipated looks on her face while Shef laughs and claps his hands for Po.



“Doodlebug, why do you like this crap?” she asks him repeatedly, despite my frequent appeals to watch her language.

I, for one, don’t care why he likes it, but I love that he’ll sit still for five whole minutes to see Dipsy jump in and out of a hole and run around the space-age Tubby chromedome.

God bless 'em, I say.