For the life of me I cannot find it, but I am sure that somewhere on Ruby's body, there must be a little screw down flap where the batteries go. I say this because, but for the pink fur, pointy ears and little drum, she is almost exactly like the Duracell Bunny.
Of course, rather than plugging her into the mains, we recharge her batteries with the means of well-timed meals, snacks and sleeps. From the moment she wakes in the morning, she's on top speed. Breakfast sends her supersonic, and this will last for a good couple of hours before she shows signs of slowing, at which point some crackers will pep her up again until lunch/nap time.
So, when she's carefully managed, Ru can pretty much keep going at full throttle all day (and honestly, the speed at which she goes sometimes terrifies me – I am certain one of these days her ABS will fail and she'll hurtle right through glass of the French doors into the garden).
But I have to say, it's terribly sweet when, for one reason or another, we get out of sync – the batteries slow, and then fail very suddenly. I saw the result of this not long ago when, after a morning of pelting round the garden and scaling the living room furniture, Ruby completely ran out of energy just as she reached the summit of her toy chest. When I came into the living room to see what she was up to, she face down on the wood, snoring.
Well, the other day, for the first time, I actually witnessed the dramatic waning of power. We'd been out and about all morning and had been held up in traffic. Ruby was rather tired and might have fallen asleep in the car – but she and her big sister Ava were engrossed in one of their favourite games, which I have called 'Making the Most Annoying Noise in the World, as Loud as We Can, Until Mummy Turns Purple'.
Finally we arrived home, I removed my fingernails from the deep dents they had made in the steering wheel, and we went inside to sort out lunch: pasta for Ava and a couscous medley for Ruby and I.
I could see Ru was flagging, but her hunger, combined with the sight of her favourite ever food on the plate (olives) made her pile in. She ate them quickly and, as Ava prattled on about how much she is looking forward to her birthday (which is in September, incidentally), I was aware of Ru saying:
"More olive? More olive?"
I scraped a couple of mine on to her plate, which satisfied her for a little while, as Ava continued to tell us what she was planning for her party.
Then: "More olive? More olive? Mo olav? Molav?"
I realised Ru was slurring, so I turned to look at her. She was still chewing an olive actually, but as she continued to ask me for more, her eyes started rolling and she began swaying like a drunkard.
For a brief second I thought she was ill, that she might be about to have a seizure or something. I went to lift her from her seat and she flopped into my chest, her eyes half closed. And then I realised, she wasn't poorly at all – she was just falling asleep!
I took the half chewed olive out of her mouth (which she sleepily and very ineffectively tried to swipe back) and took her up to her cot. And as I laid her down, she said very quietly, with her eyes completely closed: "Mloluv, mummy?" before conking out completely for two-and-a-half hours.
We had left it too late, the tanks were completely empty, not even olives could postpone sleep – but I had to give her credit for putting up such a valiant fight.
You can catch up on previous Terrible Twos here.