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Archive for December, 2013

lilla's bed vert 2

So….went to put Rosebud to bed last night, walked into her bedroom and this is what I saw.

Heh, heh, she said, kind of trying to fake sheepish and not really being that sheepish at all.

“I put my dolls on my bed today, because I wanted to count them.”

Yeah, that’s right, there’s a bed under that pig pile of dolls. And there were others that — English major question: are dolls a “which” or a “that” or a “who”? — were in a basket in the corner and probably even additional others that were in her closet, which is a door that I will not walk through.

This from a child who had the audacity to suggest earlier in the day while walking through a store that there were at least three dolls in just one aisle that she was going to add to her list for Santa. Well, muffin, that picture over there is presently being uploaded to the Jolly Ol’ Elf at 1 North Pole Plaza as we speak.

In that pile we have an American Girl (I don’t know which one), and a stuffed monkey and a couple of horses and nightly sleeping companion, “Bunny.” We have ballerinas and princesses and a lady bug and a lamb and little hard-headed plastic “J.J.,” named for a real neighbor back in Norfolk.

To the right of this pile, out of the picture, we have a four-foot tall Barbie house that came with 32 pages of assembly instructions and took me four hours and two IPAs to put together last Christmas Eve. Now, I see why the Barbies demanded their own, separate residences — tucked away at the end of a cul-de-sac from these huddled masses.

Clearly, what we have here is the makings of a six-year-old hoarder. As in most of those situations you read about in the newspaper with some old woman having 78 cats, surely this began as a benevolent effort before it went horribly awry. Now, it has dragged on for so long that it is no longer in the best interest of the dolls.

For evidence of this, look no further than the foreground of the photo: Clearly, Elmo is being crushed under the weight of the pile like an earthquake victim. See, his mouth is agape and crying for help — and his eyes are all bugged out.

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