A Very American Girl Christmas 2011

When I found out we were having a girl, there were a few things I was immediately psyched about experiencing with my child.

1. Rereading Anne of Green Gables, my all-time favorite series.
2. Being able to pretend that I was at  The Wizarding World of Harry Potter at Universal Orlando “for my child” so that no one would know how desperately I’ve always wanted to go to Hogwarts and drink butterbeer.
3. Doing arts and crafts, especially the tedious and boring kinds like embroidery and quilting.
4. Helping my daughter select her very own historically appropriate American Girl doll and reading the books* together.

Oh, Anne, when you cracked that slate over Gilbert's head I only wished I could be as spunky as you.

*(The astute reader will notice a theme here.  In case you didn’t catch it, the theme is Let’s Make Our Daughter A Giant Nerd.)

Now, I realize that nothing makes a book or activity less appealing than a parent’s naked, overwhelming desire for their child to like/engage with it, so I knew that when Lydia was finally old enough for me to introduce her to my favorite childhood activities, I’d have to play it cool. Harry’s Marauder’s Map not the single coolest thing you’ve ever heard of?  Cross stitch not immediately your #1 pastime?   No problem, I can roll with that.  I’m chill…or maybe I’m “chillaxed” if that’s what the kids are saying these days. You go and do your texting…or your field hockey…find your own bliss.  I’ll be right over here reading Anne of Avonlea for the 80th time.

But I’ve got to tell you, the waiting is practically killing me.  At what age is it appropriate to start reading your kid a—let’s face it—slow-paced chapter book about an orphan growing up in Canada?  My hunch is Lydia will have to be seven or eight to truly appreciate it.  And historical dolls like Kit and Ruthie: “resourceful girls living in the Great Depression?” The website says ages 8+. That gives me five years, minimum, before I can begin Operation Nerdify.

So imagine my excitement at learning that the marketing wizards at American Girl have introduced a new line of dolls specifically for toddlers.  And how did I learn of these dolls?  Let me paint the scene for you.  I was at the gigantic Natick Collection with my friend Emilie, who shares my abiding love for American Girl dolls and has a six-year-old girl for whom she has purchased a doll and many, many accessories.  (So many accessories, in fact, that upon returning home after a different visit to the store, she wrote the following email: “I spent a shameful amount of money which I justify by saying that I will space out the gifts between Christmas and birthday.  I’m just happy that my husband didn’t make me set up the four-poster doll bed to sleep on.”) Emilie and I go to American Girl to buy presents for Emilie’s daughter.  I casually mention that I wish I could buy something for Lydia, but that she is is too young.  Emilie says, “Does she have a Bitty Baby? They’re made for kids her age.”

Those juice boxes are actually filled with heroin--it's the only explanation for my behavior.

I go immediately to the Bitty Baby section where I promptly lose all sanity and sense of reason.  I’m like a sex addict in a whorehouse.  I find an adorable doll with brown hair and eyes—just like Lydia!  I find a Sleepover Snack Pack, which is like a tiny backpack for the doll complete with tiny juice boxes and a petite Tupperware filled with microscopic Cheerios. I find a Potty Training Set with little underwear and tissues—what awesomely proactive parent could not buy this for their toddler?  I find a Winter Play Outfit and a backpack for Lydia to wear that has a Bjorn attachment for the doll.  She can wear her doll.  I mean, how can I not buy this?  I exit the store, Sherpa-like, my gigantic red shopping bag filled to the brim.

Ryan, understandably, cannot understand what has happened to me.  He watches skeptically as I wrap all the gifts and suggests that we dole them out to her over Hanukkah and Christmas, so as not to overwhelm her.  I agree, calculating that that means I can play with Lydia can play with the doll four days earlier that way.

So, in a scene that hopefully does not portend future scenes, we give her the doll on the first night of Hanukkah.  I am practically shaking with excitement, so badly do I want to share this experience with my daughter.

A PRESENT!, she shrieks when we tell her she can open one.  A PRESENT, A PRESENT, as she rips off the wrapping paper.  OH, A BOX!, she squeals as the paper comes off.  “No Lydia,” we say, “the present is inside the box.”  She opens the box.  “A DOLLY!!” she says.  I’m thrilled—it is the Inaugural Moment in the handing down of my favorite experiences.  I take the doll out of the box and pretend to rock it before handing it over to Lydia.

She looks from me to the doll with what I can only describe as distaste.  I pick the doll up and pretend she is jumping and dancing.  I say, sweetly, “Lydia, should we read the doll her book?”  She says, “No, Mommy.  JUST LYDIA.”  and puts the doll back in the box. “DOLLY STAY HERE.”  And she snuggles up next to me, just the two of us, the Bitty Baby interloper out of sight and out of mind.

Tomorrow we’ll give Lyd the Potty Training Set. I’m going to take my own advice and pretend I don’t even like it, that I don’t want put those cute undies on under Dolly’s tights so that Dolly can feel like a big girl.  Maybe that way Lydia will think it’s cool.  And then in a few years, I’m going to say, “Hermione? What a loser.  Who would want to read about her?” so that Lydia can come to it in her own way, if at all.

Because after all, that’s the mature thing to do.

No dolls were played with during the writing of this post.

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