I am in Polly Pocket hell. Held off on them as long as I could on the say so of mothers with older girls who warned me. That her little rubber clothes would make me swear under my breath. That I’d find her teeny shoes everywhere and that they’d never stay on her teeny feet. And I listened and then promptly ignored them all and let my parents give her her first Polly for her birthday and now I’m in hell. Teeny shoe and rubber clothes hell. And now Polly has four dogs and I swear one of them just had an accident on the carpet. Tess and I have spent exhaustive hours imagining lives for the Pollys: one is a veterinarian, another is a ballerina and the third seems to be holding out for a career in modeling, but I’m pretty sure she’s been drinking. No really, they even came with a teeny tiny bloody mary that sticks to their teeny tiny hands and allows them to escape for a time into a world where they are not constantly being dressed and undressed in rubber clothes and accessories like sparkly dogs on rubber leashes.
Dan has sworn never to touch one again, so as the more dextrous parent, I’ve been assigned Polly duty even though I’d much rather poke my own eyes out with sporks. But rubber outfits and imaginary lives aside, it does afford me some pretty sweet time with my daughter who is growing up far too fast and who will one day eschew dolls in favor of only being with her friends and learning to drive. So I’m trying to enjoy these days of rolling clothes onto minuscule dolls and playing doula to the Pretty Ponies and allowing Barbie to bathe in my tub. It’ll end. All good things do. But before they leave, they give birth to other good things and I’m excited to see what those things are. What the future holds for this dreamer of a girl who lives in a world all her own and a million times a day throws open the door and invites me in for a visit. I love it here. I never want to leave.