Doll House

I remember loving to play with dolls. For some reason, even at a young age, I would make up elaborate dramas about my dolls. Someone was always pregnant (with Kleenex), for example, or a single mother. My childhood was swift and sweet, so I must have felt the need to over-embellish the lives of those tiny, amorphous figures. Perhaps this was the writer that still tries to claw its way into my way of seeing.

I just don't want to see that way anymore. As adults, we are bombarded by drama, mostly the kind we make up and act out just because we stopped playing with dolls, I think.

For my daughter's upcoming second birthday, I ordered her a dollhouse. I can't help but feel excited for the arrival of this plastic paradise...it must be a girl-thing. I imagine we will arrange tiny furniture in tiny rooms and then stare at it until she is six or so, old enough to act out a soap opera dialogue of her own. On the other hand, by then life could be so challenging that she will have all of the dolls arranged in the living room with their feet up on ottomans holding tiny margaritas. Either way, I can't wait to hear what she comes up with.