The other day I made a total rookie mistake. You'd almost think I'd never done this mom thing before, that I hadn't learned anything in the last 10 years.
As we pulled into the driveway, I checked the mail. There, amongst the grocery store circulars, was an American Girl catalog. And without thinking, I handed it into the backseat to Punkin. Did you hear that loud scratching sound last Wednesday? That was the needle of realization scratching across the record of my consciousness.
What had I done?
Sure enough, before I had even put the car in drive, "Look, Mommy! There's a doll in here named Punkin! And she has blonde hair just like me! And a pony! And a nightgown! And a sleeping bag!"
And the coup de grace, "I want an American Girl doll, Mommy." Cha-ching!
Oh Lord. This, from a girl who has never once played with a doll for more than five minutes. I don't really care that she doesn't play with dolls. She comes by it naturally. The running joke in my family was that within five minutes all my dolls were naked in a box under my bed. The only time I seriously played with Barbies was when I chopped all the hair off one of them and "punked" her up by using magic markers to streak her hair and apply more makeup.
I actually kind of like the idea of American Girl dolls because of the stories that accompany them. What I don't like is their price tag or the fact that I know that she wouldn't play with it for five minutes. I'd rather just get her some books.
Now, where DID that American Girl catalog get to, anyway?
1 year ago