I didn’t play with baby dolls much as a child. Familiarity with any kind of ball – basketball, softball, tennis ball – came much more natural to me than any type of toy requiring a bottle or diaper change. Baby Alive, the life like doll whose claim to fame was that it actually ate and then disposed of waste in human like fashion, made my stomach crawl with indignation at the lack of respect for privacy by the folks at Hasbro. As a child, I remember wondering how one could derive fun from this process of intake and elimination, and distinctly recall making a point to my parents that it NOT be added to the wish list submitted to Santa.
Lack of interest in plastic infants completely befuddled my baby-loving mom. Babies of all shapes, sizes and colors drew her interest wherever we went, demonstrating a supernatural magnetic pull that would guide her to the nearest child in a baby carriage. Many times in the mall, with teenage arms defiantly crossed over my chest, I would roll my eyes impatiently as my mom ooohed and aaaaahed over each baby that represented a physical obstacle to the jelly shoes I needed to purchase or the spiral perm waiting for me at Regis Hair Salon.
Ironically, and because God has the best sense of humor of anyone I know, my daughter L.O.V.E.S. baby dolls. Every special occasion fulfills her repeated and now very predictable request, for a new baby. Her collection is extensive, loving each individual doll in the fascinating manner that only a four year old can muster, and a joy to behold. I fully support Mary Mac’s baby doll habit. I do. Imaginative play and conversations that I overhear are a priceless memory I beg my sleep-deprived brain to always remember.
It has become increasingly more difficult to maintain any sense of order in my home with the growing family of babies that somehow leak into every room in our house. She sets up her dolls in various rooms –which I don’t mind – but what has become an issue, is that the dolls are left behind, leaving a somewhat cluttered mess that I usually return to her bedroom.
Here is an example:
Mary Mac’s family of babies at the “movies”:
She leaves the room to play outside, and because it is the end of the day, and her dad is expected home any minute, and I pridefully want to prove that I do more in this house than blog and talk on the phone, I scurry around to return the living room to its original state and the dolls to their rightful place.
About fifteen minutes later, and right after I start supper, I find this:
And because it is the end of the day, and her dad is expected home any minute, and I pridefully want to prove that I do more in this house than blog and talk on the phone, I scurry around to return the living room to its original state.
Are you starting to detect the daily pattern involving these babies?
Some sort of peace treaty approach is going to be necessary to solve the baby doll turf wars between Mary Mac and me. Other than averting her attention to other interests like jelly shoes and spiral perms, I’m not sure what to do.
Any friendly suggestions?