A Doll's Life

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A Doll's Life

by Asche

June, 2015

If you think being a toy is like it is in Toy Story, it's not like that at all. It's actually pretty boring. When we're lying in the toybox, we don't carry out secret missions, because we can't move on our own. We don't have long conversations, because, you know, toys can't talk. We just lie there, thinking our thoughts. Or at least, I do. I'm lying on the yellow stuffed giraffe's head. I don't know what he (or is it she?) thinks. I don't even know if he (or she) thinks at all. We just lie there until Mommy takes us out and plays with us.

I'm a doll. Or at least, I look like one. I saw myself one time in a mirror and I know I look like a Raggedy Andy doll, with button eyes and a blue pair of short-pants overalls. My hands are like flat fists with black thread in lines to make it look like I have fingers.

I like it when Mommy takes us out and plays with us. Sometimes she cuddles me like a little baby and rocks me to sleep. I don't really sleep, because I'm a doll. My eyes don't close like the baby doll's. Her eyes close when you lay her on her back. Mommy used to take me to bed with her and let me lie next to her. But she doesn't any more.

Sometimes she plays school with me. She sets me in a chair at the table and teaches me. She's really smart. One time she taught me about German nouns. I wonder what an umlaut is. Is it something you spread on toast?

Sometimes she makes me play piano for a concert. She sets up the stuffed animals and dolls as the audience. She sets me in a little chair in front of the toy piano and makes my fists bang on the keys. Plink, plink, plink! When I'm done, she makes the other toys clap. I think I used to enjoy sitting by myself at a big piano and picking out tunes with my fingers. But it was a long time ago, I think, and I don't remember well.

One time, Mommy had a wedding for me and the princess doll. Princess has a pretty dress and has a special box. Mommy put black pants and a black jacket and hat on me, and she put a white satin dress on Princess. All the other stuffed animals and dolls were in the church. Well, really, on the floor. Mommy made us walk down the aisle while she hummed "here comes the bride." She was the minister and said "I do" for each of us. I wondered if we would have a honeymoon, but after she was done, she just put Princess back in her special box and then put us both back in the toybox.

I think Mommy sometimes dresses Princess up in a tutu and has her dance. One time, she put us all in rows like in a theater and dressed Princess up and had her do a ballet for us. I like looking at her. If I weren't a doll and could want things, I would want her to be my friend. Or I'd want to be a beautiful ballerina doll like her.

I think I used to not be a doll. I think I was a little boy. But I was always being bad and disappointing Mommy. I would take things out and make a mess, or fight with my brother, or be mean to my little sister. I would bother her when she was busy, and cry if I didn't get what I wanted. She said I was a big crybaby and a bad boy. So one day, Mommy told me to wait and she went out and came back with a big magic in her arms. It was a big round cloud, like a grey ball of lint, only a cloud. She told me it would make me a good boy. She told me to stand still and she dropped the cloud on me and it went all over and around me. And after that, I was a doll.

Sometimes I wish I could be a boy and play and have friends. Maybe if I were very good, Mommy would like me and talk to me and hug me and kiss me. But maybe it's better this way. This way, Mommy isn't mad at me or disappointed in me. This way I'm always good.

If I could wish, I would wish Mommy would take me out of the toybox and play with me more often, like she used to. Now, when she opens the toybox lid, she takes out other toys. She must know I'm here because she has to push me aside to get to the other toys. But I'm a toy and toys aren't supposed to wish. I'm not supposed to be sad even if she never plays with me. Only bad toys wish. Maybe that's why she doesn't play with me any more. Because she can tell I'm wishing and she knows I'm a bad doll. Just like I was a bad boy, back when I was a boy. If I really was a boy, and didn't just dream it.

Sometimes I pray. When I was a boy, they taught me I should pray. Only I'm not supposed to pray for things for myself. But I can't help it. I pray to God to make me stop wishing so I'll be a good doll and Mommy will want to play with me again. I know it makes me a bad doll, but I can't help it, Mommy.

Mommy: even though I'm bad -- can you please play with me?

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Comments

Confused...

The doll's "Mommy" is presumably a young girl, judging from the activities described. (Except, perhaps, for the German lessons, but we were being taught Spanish nouns in fourth grade (age 9), so that doesn't seem all that strange.)

But the doll doesn't seem to be differentiating between the Mommy that he believes turned him into a doll for misbehaving with his siblings and the Mommy he has now. Are they the same person? (The mommy who transformed him and the little sister in that scene seem to be two different people, so I'm not sure the sister could have transformed him, though that'd be the most reasonable guess otherwise.)

Eric

How to be clear without spelling things out?

I'm having a story-telling problem here.

My intent was for the reader to eventually realize that "Mommy" is the boy's (later, the doll's) actual mother, who is treating mothering (or wants mothering to be) as if she were a little girl playing with her dolls. I wanted this to be something that slowly dawns upon the reader, rather than something I spelled out, as that IMHO that would get across the idea, but not the feeling of having a mother like that.

Evidently the approach didn't work, at least, not for you. I'm wondering how I could rework the story so it would have the desired effect on more readers.

BTW, if you haven't known (or had) a mother like that, count yourself lucky.