We Need a Bigger House for Emily by Dina Ramon

My daughter may as well have a sister since she’s practically given up half her room to accommodate the toys, furniture and truckload of accessories for her doll. Excuse me, I mean Emily – I’m not supposed to call her a doll. We will need to move soon just to have more space for everything Emily owns including her living room set. Emily even has her own kitchen; her fridge has more food in it right now than mine. Maybe it’s more pronounced for me since I’m a ‘later’ mom but the doll landscape sure has changed from when I was little. It seems like every time I look there is a new type of doll on the market. Besides the massive American Girl phenomena, there are the high school age, monster high types, cutesy ‘pigtails and pinafores’ Lalaloopsy dolls, and the legacy Barbie, of which my daughter used to have nearly two dozen. They all lived together in the Barbie house and it was a great living arrangement for them (and for me since they were contained and not getting lost all over my house), which my daughter enjoyed controlling. Until one day she grew tired of Barbie and I sadly gave the whole set up to a friend’s little girl. I had really become attached to those Barbie dolls and all of their dramas that my daughter created. I didn’t play with dolls much growing up. I remember my favorite doll named Velvet had adjustable hair that you could make long or short by pushing a button on her tummy. I Googled Velvet not too long ago but she didn’t quite look the way I remember her. I also had just one, maybe two Barbies; one was her sister Skipper so I don’t know if she counts as a Barbie. Regardless, I barely remember playing with them. My mom tells the story of how when I was about 2 or 3 and my brother was born she gave me a baby doll in an attempt to ease my confusion over this new person in our family who was of course taking attention away from me. When she handed me the doll, I promptly flung it across the room and said in ‘toddler talk’ that I wanted to hold the ‘real’ baby that my mom just brought home. I guess that was a good indicator that my love of dolls would be short-lived. Maybe if my Velvet and two Barbies had their own pets, bike, home goods, and career accessories like my daughter’s Emily, I would have had more interest; playing with dolls was over for me well before I was my daughter’s age. For now, I am more concerned with space for Emily’s empire and keeping everyone comfortable until we move to a bigger place and Emily truly gets her own room.

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