a personal essay by
Copyright 2010 Janice Daugharty
Only ten more day till our six-year-old granddaughter’s birthday, and I’ve got to come up with a better gift than the in-laws’. This one’s a cutie, but aren’t they all when they’re little and they belong to you?
My husband and I had two blond cherubic girls with spun-glass curls and the blared aqua eyes of their father; they are 38 and 40 years old now with four daughters between them. Our son, two years younger, had a full head of red ringlets, not the common orangy color of most red heads. His hair was more brick with veins of gold, and women of a certain age would push their shopping carts all the way across the grocery store just for a feel, as if to touch those magic coins of curls their own grown children might be restored to them as babies.
Well, ladies, I’ve got a no-hassle cure for that peculiar kind of longing.
I just saw an ad in a magazine stating that for the mere price of new refrigerator you can send in a picture of your child and have a life-size doll made in his or her own image. Just think about it: your children grow up and, in the process, give you a whole bunch of joy and pain, but the dolls stay the same—sweet, cuddly, silent and all yours.
Hey, you could place these dolls in the middle of your children’s deserted beds or on a shelf in their rooms and have them as babies for the rest of your life. Or you could set up your children’s old cribs and put the dolls in there and cover them with those crocheted blankets of pink or blue before gender-ID became a condemnation of your inability to accept change. You could rock your children instead of knitting in your old age, take them with you to the nursing home when you go if you want to. You could take your children shopping with you and not even strap them into those tortuous time-out car seats, not have them overturning your shopping cart and screaming bloody-murder, bringing everybody, including the security guards, to see what you have done to them this time.