Dolls and Daughters

My father told me at an early age that he thought I would make a terrible mother because of what I did to my dolls as a child. Not that I really did anything with them. I just didn’t like dolls. I just didn’t like playing with dolls. I seem to remember a naked doll in my closet. I guess I would take off their clothes and stash them away. I don’t remember playing with Barbie’s either. At least, not until I had a daughter of my own. And guess what? I didn’t like doing it then, either! I would much rather “talk” my daughter’s stuffed animals, like Rollo, a pink soft cuddly pig in pajamas. My daughter would say, “Talk Rollo, mom.” And my daughter and Rollo would carry on a conversation for a while. (Not unlike the many many many times my daughter, when visiting a public restroom, would want to talk about dinosaurs. Huh? Now? In the bathroom? In front of other women? And they would just smile knowingly.)

Anyway, back to dolls. I remember when my daughter was about 2 years old, my father told me, in a surprised way, that I was actually a good mother! Imagine that! Hah! I had proved him wrong. Just because I didn’t play with dolls didn’t mean I would make a bad mother. Even if it did take two years to prove it!

I think I’ve been a much better mother than I ever was a doll player. I’ve had almost 28 years to draw that comparison. Thanks to my dad for keeping things in perspective!


~ by Heather on October 5, 2010.

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