My Babies are not Dolls

Mum pats the sofa in a confiding and comforting sort of way. I snuggle in beside her in gleeful anticipation.

The catalogue is open on her knee and I carefully and methodically turn the pages – examining each baby in turn for their qualities.

I am well practiced now and know what to look for. A pretty face, blue eyes but most essential of all is the soft body. Oh yes and the clothes. This one in a blue romper is perfect. From that day forward I wait. It can be weeks and I am not good at waiting.

There is that wriggle of excitement that denotes a certainty of satisfaction and also that other one, the more uncomfortable one, the anxiety that she may not come, may not be “in stock” and therefore exchanged for a lesser model. Do they care enough to get it right?

Tissue paper crackles. Cold is at the window. It is the day.

Lost in a family of elders I am derided for my impatience. Church. Lunch. Walks and tea. It goes on and on.

Now the tree. At last. Once again I am teased and taunted by older siblings who have an axe to grind; there are indeed quite a few gifts for me. I squirm silently.

I cannot help but scan the wrappings – shape and size of course and always a box – she always comes in a box.

My turn now. The striped paper and huge red ribbon add to the delay… is she here? My heart depends upon it.

Staring out at me through the cellophane window is a baby. Rose red lips, curled plastic hair and cheeks all round waiting to be kissed. In a pink dress and little white socks she is not quite the one but she is very pretty and smells delicious.

She scrambles out of the box and amidst a sea of paper and string we fall in love.

Her soft body nestles into my soft arms as I rearrange her frills and examine her interesting knickers and little plastic toes.

The banter goes on over my head. Behind the Christmas tree now happily forgotten, my baby and I sing together, oblivious to dinner preparations and champagne corks flying.

Later, we creep unnoticed up the stairs into the darkening house. I find Matilda sadly sitting in a corner. I gather her up and kissing her briefly on the cheek, tuck her in beside the baby and sing a sleeping song.

This is my best Christmas EVER.

Your Name (required)

Your Email (required)


Your Message



Feel free to share ......Share on Facebook
Tweet about this on Twitter
Share on LinkedIn

About the author

Relative Posts