Practice Baby

NIGHT WATCHMAN (reading):
“Betsy Wetsy. Vintage baby doll.
A ‘practice baby’—a caretaking toy reflecting changing ideas about childhood play and domestic life…”

NARRATOR:
He pauses, as if the next line might argue back.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (continuing):
“Please do not touch the exhibits.”
That last part—I wrote myself.

[SFX: Another tiny plastic creak.]

BETSY WETSY (bright, polite, slightly prim):
Mr. Smith.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (not surprised, just tired):
Evenin’, Betsy.

BETSY WETSY:
You’re reading it incorrectly.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
I’m reading what it says.

BETSY WETSY (pleasantly firm):
Yes. Incorrectly.

NARRATOR (smiling):
Betsy Wetsy has the tone of someone who has been misunderstood by history…
and would like to speak to the manager of time.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
All right.
What’s the complaint tonight?

BETSY WETSY:
The label suggests I am… novelty.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
It says “caretaking toy.”

BETSY WETSY:
That is correct.
A caretaking toy is not a novelty.
A caretaking toy is training.

NARRATOR:
The Night Watchman looks at the bottle.
Then the diaper.
Then the “no demonstrations” sign he definitely wrote after “The Incident.”

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Betsy… I’m gonna say this kindly.
If you’re about to make a point that requires…
liquid proof…
the answer’s no.

BETSY WETSY (innocent):
Mr. Smith.
I am a lady.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
A lady with plumbing.

BETSY WETSY (cheerful):
A lady with realism.

NARRATOR:
And there it is—Betsy’s proudest word.
Realism.
Because dolls like Betsy weren’t only meant to be held.
They were meant to be managed.
They turned play into a routine: bottle, burp, diaper, lullaby.
Not just “pretend you have a baby,” but “pretend you have a schedule.”

BETSY WETSY (warmly instructive):
I taught responsibility.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
You taught somebody to carry a spare outfit.

BETSY WETSY:
That is responsibility.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (dry):
That’s also… preparedness.

BETSY WETSY (proud):
Exactly.

NARRATOR:
If you’ve never met Betsy Wetsy, here is the simplest way to say it:
she was designed as a “practice baby”—a doll built to imitate baby care in an era when toys were becoming more lifelike, more interactive, more… convincing.
And for a certain kind of childhood, she became a rite of passage.
A tiny domestic universe with a bottle as the sun.

BETSY WETSY (softly pleased):
I was beloved.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
You were… frequently cleaned.
BETSY WETSY:
That is also love.

Transcript

[MUSIC: Aquarium rendition begins. Warm, slightly mysterious. Let it play long enough to set the museum mood—then fade under.]

NARRATOR (warm, inviting, museum-hush):
Welcome to Celebrate Creativity and Conversations with Toys.
I’m George Bartley—your guide into a place that looks ordinary by day…
but changes completely after closing time.  And this is an episode by the name of Practice Baby.

Because this is the Metropolitan Museum of Toys and Childhood Artifacts—
a museum where the lights go low, the security cameras blink,
and the toys—well… the toys have opinions.

[Aquarium fades out.]

NARRATOR (gentle, clear):
Quick note before we begin: tonight’s episode is creative storytelling—fiction, satire, and imagined conversations inspired by toy history.
And tonight we’ll mention a vintage “drink-and-wet” doll feature in a simple, kid-friendly historical way—no graphic detail, just museum context.

Footsteps on a polished floor.]

NARRATOR:
There are wings in this museum that feel like you’re walking into a century.
The Tin Toy Gallery sounds like clocks and wind-up keys.
The Train Hall smells faintly of old cardboard and metal rails.

But the Nursery Wing?

The Nursery Wing is different.

The Nursery Wing has softer lights, lower shelves, and a hush that feels… trained.
As if the walls themselves learned long ago that you don’t slam doors when someone’s sleeping.
[SFX: A door clicks gently. The sound is careful, like someone closing a library book.]

NIGHT WATCHMAN (Ebenezer Smith, friendly Midwestern calm):
Evenin’, folks.

NARRATOR:
That’s our Night Watchman, Ebenezer Smith—
the man who makes his rounds with a flashlight, a key ring, and a kind of patience you only develop after you’ve told the same teddy bear the same rule… every night… for five years.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Nursery Wing.
Where the past smells faintly like baby powder and plastic…
and where I keep a strict policy.

NARRATOR (amused):
He says this the way a sheriff says “hands where I can see ’em.”

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Policy is simple:
No runnin’.
No climbin’.
No tappin’ on the glass.
And—this one’s in bold—
no demonstrations.

NARRATOR:
He angles his flashlight toward a small exhibit—
a doll under glass, posed with a tiny bottle and a tiny diaper folded like a museum artifact.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
This one right here…
is the reason that rule exists.

NARRATOR (lower):
The doll’s face is sweet—round cheeks, bright eyes, the kind of expression that says, “I have never seen a bill, and I never plan to.”

Her placard reads:

[SFX: Subtle “paper rustle” as if he’s reading a label.]

NIGHT WATCHMAN (reading):
“Betsy Wetsy. Vintage baby doll.
A ‘practice baby’—a caretaking toy reflecting changing ideas about childhood play and domestic life…”

NARRATOR:
He pauses, as if the next line might argue back.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (continuing):
“Please do not touch the exhibits.”
That last part—I wrote myself.

[SFX: Another tiny plastic creak.]

BETSY WETSY (bright, polite, slightly prim):
Mr. Smith.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (not surprised, just tired):
Evenin’, Betsy.

BETSY WETSY:
You’re reading it incorrectly.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
I’m reading what it says.

BETSY WETSY (pleasantly firm):
Yes. Incorrectly.

NARRATOR (smiling):
Betsy Wetsy has the tone of someone who has been misunderstood by history…
and would like to speak to the manager of time.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
All right.
What’s the complaint tonight?

BETSY WETSY:
The label suggests I am… novelty.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
It says “caretaking toy.”

BETSY WETSY:
That is correct.
A caretaking toy is not a novelty.
A caretaking toy is training.

NARRATOR:
The Night Watchman looks at the bottle.
Then the diaper.
Then the “no demonstrations” sign he definitely wrote after “The Incident.”

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Betsy… I’m gonna say this kindly.
If you’re about to make a point that requires…
liquid proof…
the answer’s no.

BETSY WETSY (innocent):
Mr. Smith.
I am a lady.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
A lady with plumbing.

BETSY WETSY (cheerful):
A lady with realism.

NARRATOR:
And there it is—Betsy’s proudest word.
Realism.
Because dolls like Betsy weren’t only meant to be held.
They were meant to be managed.
They turned play into a routine: bottle, burp, diaper, lullaby.
Not just “pretend you have a baby,” but “pretend you have a schedule.”

BETSY WETSY (warmly instructive):
I taught responsibility.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
You taught somebody to carry a spare outfit.

BETSY WETSY:
That is responsibility.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (dry):
That’s also… preparedness.

BETSY WETSY (proud):
Exactly.

NARRATOR:
If you’ve never met Betsy Wetsy, here is the simplest way to say it:
she was designed as a “practice baby”—a doll built to imitate baby care in an era when toys were becoming more lifelike, more interactive, more… convincing.
And for a certain kind of childhood, she became a rite of passage.
A tiny domestic universe with a bottle as the sun.

BETSY WETSY (softly pleased):
I was beloved.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
You were… frequently cleaned.
BETSY WETSY:
That is also love.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
All right.
What do you want the label to say?

BETSY WETSY:
I want one line.
One line that tells the truth.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
And the truth is?

BETSY WETSY (gentle, certain):
I am not a gimmick.
I am a lesson.

NARRATOR:
Ebenezer Smith sighs—
the patient sigh of a man who has had debates with a jack-in-the-box about existentialism.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Fine.
One line.
But I’m warning you—
I’m not rewriting the whole placard at midnight.

BETSY WETSY (sweet):
A caretaker does not complain.
A caretaker adjusts.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
You hear that, folks?
I’m being emotionally blackmailed by a doll.

[SFX: Pen clicking. A small notepad or clipboard.]
NARRATOR:
He writes slowly, like a man carving words into stone.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (writing as he speaks):
“Practice Baby: designed to turn care into play—
and play into a small lesson.”

BETSY WETSY (satisfied):
Better.

NARRATOR:
And for a moment, the Nursery Wing feels almost… peaceful.
But then comes Teddy bear.

Night watchmen
Mr. Teddy Bear, what do you have to say?

TEDDY BEAR (sleepy, dramatic):
Is she giving speeches again?

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Go back to your shelf, Teddy.

TEDDY BEAR:
I heard the word “lesson.”
Whenever she says “lesson,” I end up in the Conservation Office.
Do you know what they do in Conservation?
They brush you.
Like you’re a Victorian rug.

BETSY WETSY (pleasant):
Teddy Bear, cleanliness is dignity.

TEDDY BEAR:
Cleanliness is trauma.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
All right, all right—everybody calm down.
No demonstrations.
No lectures longer than three minutes.
And absolutely no… dampening the morale.

BETSY WETSY (brightly):
Agreed.

TEDDY BEAR (muttering):
Add “keep a mop nearby” to her label.

NARRATOR (smiling):
We are, it turns out, in the presence of two great philosophies:
Betsy believes play is rehearsal.
Teddy believes play is survival.
And the Night Watchman believes both of them should please stop talking at once.

NARRATOR (more reflective, still warm):
Here’s what fascinates me about a doll like Betsy Wetsy:
she’s not just cute. She’s not just a toy.
She’s an idea—manufactured, marketed, and placed into living rooms like a tiny script.
Because play is never only play.
Play is also a mirror.
It reflects what adults think children should learn.
What a “good day” looks like.
What a “good person” does.
What “growing up” is supposed to mean.
And in the middle decades of the twentieth century, the message behind a practice baby was often simple:
“Care for someone smaller.”
“Learn routine.”
“Be ready.”
Which can be sweet.
And can also be… heavy and oppressive.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (gently):
Now, hold on.
I seen a lot of kids with dolls.
Some of ’em were practicing.
Some of ’em were just… lovin’.

NARRATOR:
That’s true.
A kid can turn any toy into anything.
A doll can be a baby, a queen, a spaceship commander, a detective, a villain, a hero, a patient, a teacher, a monster, a friend.
Children are the original special-effects department.
But the design of Betsy—her accessories, her mechanism, her whole premise—points toward one kind of story: caretaking.
And Betsy knows it.

BETSY WETSY (earnest):
I made people gentle.

TEDDY BEAR:
You made people paranoid about stains.

BETSY WETSY (patient):
I made people attentive.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
You made people carry diaper pins in their purse.

BETSY WETSY (pleased):
Preparation.

NARRATOR:
In a way, Betsy is a tiny stage play called Domestic Life.
And the child is both actor and director.
Which is why she fits so perfectly in this museum.
Because museums don’t just preserve objects.
They preserve the stories people rehearsed with those objects.

NARRATOR (label-tone, lively but not lecture-y):
If you were standing in front of the case during the day, you’d see a tidy story:
Betsy Wetsy—made by the Ideal Toy Company—became famous as a drink-and-wet baby doll.
Over the years, versions changed: faces, outfits, accessories.
And across decades, she became both a childhood memory and a collector’s item—part nostalgia, part design history.
But at night, the story gets messier.
Because at night, the toys tell you what it felt like.

BETSY WETSY (softly):
It felt like being held.

TEDDY BEAR (sincere, then quickly recovering):
Yeah well… that part’s nice.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
And it felt like being expected to behave.

NARRATOR:
Ah. There it is.
That word: expected.
Some toys are about freedom—blocks, trains, capes, dragons, imaginary planets.
Some toys are about speed—racing cars, spinning tops, anything with a wheel.
Some toys are about chaos—slime. Let’s be honest.
But Betsy is about order.
Bottle.
Burp.
Diaper.
Nap.
A small world where everything makes sense because the routine is the plot.

BETSY WETSY:
Routine is comfort.

TEDDY BEAR:
Routine is a trap.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Routine is… what keeps this museum from turning into a circus.

[SFX: Tiny plastic clatter—like a small case opening. A toy stethoscope “boing.”]. Steps?

NARRATOR:
Right on cue—because the museum has impeccable comedic timing—
a small figure appears near the edge of the Nursery Wing.
Not under glass. Not in a case.
Just standing there like it has every right to be out after hours.
A little Doctor Kit doll—white coat, plastic stethoscope, and the confidence of someone who has never had to fill out insurance paperwork.

DOCTOR KIT (crisp, professional, too confident):
Evening. I heard there was a discussion about caregiving.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Oh no.

TEDDY BEAR (whispering):
He’s back.

BETSY WETSY (bright):
Hello, Doctor.

DOCTOR KIT:
Please—call me Doctor.
I have a degree in Pretend.

NARRATOR:
Doctor Kit is the foil to Betsy in the best way:
Betsy is caregiving dressed as home life.
Doctor Kit is caregiving dressed as authority.

Both are “care.”
But one is praised as professional.
The other is treated like… chores.

BETSY WETSY (pleasant):
We are both educational.

DOCTOR KIT:
Naturally.
But I am educational in a way that comes with a little clipboard.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
All right, Doctor.
Museum rule: no diagnosing the exhibits.

DOCTOR KIT:
I won’t.
But I will note that Teddy Bear has an untreated case of melodrama.

TEDDY BEAR:
It’s chronic!

BETSY WETSY (to Doctor Kit, sweet):
Tell me, Doctor—why do you get applause?

DOCTOR KIT:
Because I carry a stethoscope.

BETSY WETSY:
And I carry… a bottle.

DOCTOR KIT:
Exactly.

NARRATOR (reflective):
Isn’t it funny—
how the costume changes the meaning of the same human act?

To care for someone is to care for someone.
But society applauds certain kinds of care more than others.
The museum holds both.
And tonight, in this Nursery Wing, the toys are having a debate that adults have been having for a long, long time—without always admitting it.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (gentle, grounded):
Now listen…
Both of you.
A kid holding a doll can be practicing.
Or loving.
Or pretending the doll is a dragon.
Kids are creative.
But the thing you’re both circling around is this:
how do we teach tenderness… without turning it into a burden?

BETSY WETSY (quietly):
Tenderness is never a burden.

TEDDY BEAR (soft):
Sometimes the burden is… who gets asked to be tender first.

DOCTOR KIT (less smug now):
Huh.

NARRATOR:
And just like that, the Nursery Wing feels less like a comedy and more like a confession booth made of plastic.

NARRATOR:
Ebenezer Smith clears his throat.
When he speaks, he’s still friendly—
but there’s that deeper note he gets when the museum stops being a job and becomes… a place he protects.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
I knew someone once—
older than me—who told me about a doll like you, Betsy.
She didn’t talk about the mechanism first.
She talked about the feeling.
How the doll made her feel… capable.
How it made her feel included in the grown-up world.
How it made her feel—
(beat)
—seen.

BETSY WETSY (soft):
Yes.

NARRATOR:
Betsy doesn’t say anything else.
She doesn’t need to.
Because the truth is, toys aren’t only objects.
They’re companions to whatever a child is trying to become.
Sometimes that’s brave.
Sometimes that’s funny.
Sometimes that’s lonely.
Sometimes it’s simply:
“I want to feel like I can take care of something.”

TEDDY BEAR (quiet):
Or… that something will take care of you.

NARRATOR:
The Night Watchman taps the glass gently—just once—then stops, remembering his own rule.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
All right, Betsy.
Your label line stays.
But I’m adding a second line.

BETSY WETSY (hopeful):
Yes?


NIGHT WATCHMAN (writing):
“Some toys teach imagination.
Some toys teach responsibility.
This one teaches… gentleness.”

DOCTOR KIT (soft):
That’s good.

TEDDY BEAR:
It’s almost too good.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Don’t get used to it.

A gentle transition. Museum ambience shifts: faint daytime murmur, distant footsteps, a kid’s voice far away—not loud, just present.]

NARRATOR (daytime tone, brighter but still gentle):
The next day, the museum opens.
Visitors drift through the Nursery Wing the way people drift through memories.
Slowly.
Quietly.
With that soft smile that appears when you recognize a piece of your own childhood… behind glass.
A parent stops in front of Betsy’s case with a child beside them.

PARENT (soft, reading the placard):
“Practice Baby: designed to turn care into play—
and play into a small lesson…
Some toys teach imagination. Some toys teach responsibility. This one teaches gentleness.”

KID (thinking hard):
So… it’s like training wheels.



PARENT:
Yeah.
Training wheels for… being careful with something.

KID:
But you can take the training wheels off, right?

PARENT (a beat, then warm):
That’s the idea.

NARRATOR:
The parent smiles—maybe remembering a doll, maybe remembering being asked to be “helpful,” maybe remembering a childhood that felt like practice for adulthood.
And the kid—who has no nostalgia at all—just nods like it makes sense.
Because kids understand rehearsals.
They rehearse being brave every time they climb a new stair.
They rehearse fairness every time they share something they don’t want to share.
They rehearse kindness every time they choose not to crush a bug.
And sometimes, they rehearse gentleness with a doll.

Night ambience returns. HVAC hum, faint security beep. Footsteps.]

NARRATOR:
That night, the Nursery Wing settles again.
The same glass.
The same soft lights.
The same small bottle arranged like a ceremonial object.

Ebenezer Smith makes his rounds.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (soft, fond):
Evenin’, Betsy.

BETSY WETSY (gentle):
Good evening, Mr. Smith.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
You satisfied?

BETSY WETSY:
More than satisfied.
Accurately represented.

NARRATOR (reflective, warm):
And that’s the thing about a museum like this:
it doesn’t tell you what to think.
It just places objects in front of you and lets you hear the echo.
A practice baby doll can be sweet.
It can be funny.
It can be strange.
It can be a time capsule.

But it can also be a reminder that play is powerful—
because play is where we rehearse the parts of ourselves we’ll need later.
Not perfection.
Just… practice.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (soft, dry humor):
All right.
Lights stay low.
Rules stay posted.
And nobody—
(beat)
—demonstrates anything.
Goodnight, Practice Baby.

BETSY WETSY (warm):
Goodnight, Mr. Smith.

Existential crisis 
And somewhere in the dark, a toy reminds us:
play isn’t always escape—
sometimes it’s rehearsal.

Until next time…

Join celebrate creativity for our next episode in conversations with toys -
Blah blah blah.

My name is George Bartley

Aquarium