Although I identified as a tomboy growing up, I too loved playing with dolls. Our mom cherished the opportunity to give her only daughter baby dolls. Today I also realize how grateful she was to afford for me what she didn’t get as a child. As I got older she sewed outfits for one doll in particular, mostly pioneer-era outfits. I used my youngest brother’s pajamas for my bigger dolls. Mom refused to buy me Barbies, although I don’t remember ever asking for one, as she believed they exposed young girls to gendered stories we didn’t need. Over the years I received a few hand-me-down Barbies from older cousins yet don’t remember ever playing with them. For many years, I received a doll at each birthday and named each of them. My doll Sissy had two visits to the doll hospital thanks to my brothers.

Shortly after I received my earlier telephone-etiquette career training, Pat and his younger-brother posse began projects with my dolls, one that required my mom to send my favorite, Sissy, to the doll hospital for a wig, after acts of scissor devastation—or was it imitating Portland Professional Wrestling? My other doll, a hand-me- down I named Steven, wasn’t quite so lucky. There didn’t seem to be any fix for Steven after early dismemberment operations severed all his fingers and toes and pushed his eyeballs into the back of his head, making him look like something straight out of a doll horror film. This all followed a special, non-parent-approved creation of my fourth birthday cake: a no-bake variety formulated by my older brothers. Chock-full of dog food with whipped cream topping. Most recently, Pat had sent me to Mars in a makeshift spaceship under a card table. It might have been exciting except for his space travel requirement that I first be blindfolded and led through complete darkness to be assaulted by prerecorded voices that amplified, burbling in a high- pitched tone: “We are going to eat you. We are going to eat you.”
My Music Man Chapter 2 Snow and Ice

Steven was a hand-me-down doll to begin with (and kind of creepy looking to me now in photos); but it was still hard to have him lose a few fingers. (All four brothers claim no memory of this now…but I have figured my memory is better.) While I circled up my dolls for time in the classroom, dressed and played with them, I too spent time outside with my brothers and alone exploring and shooting basketballs and pitching to the “pitch back net.” I remember playing with my last doll during the winter of seventh grade, knowing I was on the verge of being too old to play with dolls. We had moved that summer to LaGrande and as our first snow fell I was eager to try to make skis for my doll. I remember feeling embarrassed to still care about this plaything, especially as a new kid now in Junior High. Even then I remember wistfully seeing advertisements for Sasha Dolls, believing I was too old to wish for one, and that they were likely far more expensive than any I’d ever been gifted.

Our daughters also grew up with dolls, more diverse than the white girl dolls I had received. Like Mom, I never bought my daughters Barbies, although they occasionally received one (or a Barbie look-alike) from a friend as a birthday gift. Neither played with Barbies much, though I distinctly remember at least once seeing them hauled in a plastic dump truck. The dump truck was never very popular either except for hauling dolls.. They each received one American Girl doll from Mom, their Gaga. Gaga selected Molly for our oldest – Molly was of Mom’s era growing up during the depression. For our youngest she selected Kiersten to share her Swedish heritage. Mom sewed a small trunkful of clothing (that we still have) for the dolls. I am certain Mom loved the opportunity to select dolls and make clothing for her daughter and granddaughters – the three of us with much more “stuff” than she ever had. She made a Raggedy Ann and Andy set for her eldest granddaughter’s first birthday. Sometime in elementary school our youngest daughter won an American Girl Doll Kit in a school raffle. I remember often watching quietly outside their view as they taught their dolls to read, fed and changed them, put on band-aids and checked heartbeats, and took them to explore the outdoors.

As our grandson approached his first birthday, I knew it was time for me to buy him a doll. I was wise enough to check in with his mom to ensure the doll I bought met her wishes too. And Archie entered his life. Archie is soft and cuddleable; sleeping with him is a bit like cuddling a pillow. Little did I know that Archie would be his sleep mate for naps and night time, adding yet another ritual to help get an active child to recognize bedtime.

And in all this, I see the compassion this grandson offers his dolls, including those handed down. He shares his food, drink, and hugs. He dances with them, holding Kit by her hair. And as I began this blog, wondering if the whole doll thing was dated, evidence persuades me otherwise. No, we don’t have to look far to confirm what we already know or have experienced: playing with dolls encourages children to explore emotions. All this in a safe environment. “Through doll play, children learn to articular emotions, describe feelings, and engage in conversations about others’ experiences.” Through play like this, we begin to understand the inner world of others – we learn how to be more empathetic and compassionate in real life. Playing with dolls can boost the social development of all children.

I’m sorry my brothers were of the generation that didn’t also have dolls of their own, although they had ample play time with stuffed animals and a sister with her own stash. And, just maybe, I’ve been wrong all these years. Maybe the missing hair and doll parts were simply the after effects of my brothers loving my dolls in their rough and tumble ways. Maybe, yet again, they can thank this sister of theirs for helping them too become the compassionate and empathetic men they are today.

Our grandson with Kit and Archie.

Gaga (Patty), four granddaugters and a doll.