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Playing with Dolls

I got to buy an American Girl doll at last. Cameron, Brent’s niece and now mine, said she wanted one that looked like her for Christmas.

Back before the company was sold to Mattel, I got their catalog in the mail and called my mom, who had also received one. I asked her whether she’d buy me one if I were still a little girl. She said of course she would, and she would get one for the grown-up me if I really wanted it. That’s one of the things I love about my mom. I didn’t get one because I didn’t really need one, but I’ve always loved poring over the catalog, imagining.

As much time as I spend in the childlike space, as much as I love playing with all the kids of my acquaintance, not to mention the ones I have myself, the little girl part of me gets neglected. I am the only fairy princess I know, even though I’ve gone stealth. No one around here dresses up in long dresses, wishes for a tiara, or secretly desires a parasol.

Buying the doll is the second recent reminder of that part of me. One of my friends was saying that she put out her doll house because she has room in her new house for it. The little girls who came for Thanksgiving had a great time playing in it. My doll house is in storage because it is too big, because it needs to be refurbished, and because no one but me loves it.

It’s not a problem, exactly, just a place where I have a sadness, a lack. It’s nice to fill that place from time to time. I hope Cameron keeps liking dolls for years to come.

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