Dolls

I was a well-balanced child when it came to playing. I liked reading, knitting, and cooking, and I also liked climbing trees, riding my bike, and playing cars with the boy across the street.

What I never liked was dolls. When I was young all little girls were supposed to play with dolls. I had loads of them. Little dolls with fancy dresses and tricycles, big baby dolls that cried when you laid them down, and a doll that would crawl when you wound it up.

Reports are that the wind-up doll made me cry when I was a baby; I don’t remember, but I’m not surprised, because dolls creep me out.

I mean it. Even though I had loads of dolls as a child (my mom and grandma loved them), I didn’t play with them. My baby dolls went without food, diaper changes, or love until one of my doll-playing friends came over, then I went through the motions for her benefit.

The dolls that creep me out the most are the little monkeys that play the cymbals. Or at least the monkey doll used to creep me out the most.

Now I think the freakiest doll is the one that is bending over and hiding its eyes. I know it doesn’t have a face, but I cannot bring myself to check to be sure.

Of course, there is one thing that creeps me out more than dolls.

Clowns really, really, creep me out.