The messiest, most lived-in lovies

I will never forget what happened at the American Girl Doll Tea Party

It’s difficult to find a picture of me as a child without her. 

She’s been a part of my life for as long as I can remember and anyone who knows me well, knows her– or should I say “them.” 

There’s more than one of her– five to be exact (until one got lost when I was 16 studying abroad in Israel, and then there were four).

Her name is Dolly. All 5 of them are named Dolly, actually.

Technically each Dolly has their own unique name (given to them by me when I was 8ish) but only the closest people in my life know those names, and I’m not prepared to get that vulnerable on the internet right now, so we’ll keep it that way. 

The individual names I gave them sort of never became mainstream. Growing up, if I was speaking about them, I’d say “Dolly,” regardless of which one I was referring to. For example,  I might say, “Dad, have you seen Dolly?” But I wouldn’t say, “Dad, have you seen Poopy Twin?” Okay fine, there, I gave you one of their names for the sake of the example. Believe it or not, “Poopy Twin” is one of the least bizarre names I chose…

Oftentimes when people first learns about my Dollies, I get comments like, “I totally get it, I also had a childhood lovie that I was attached to.” To which I’ve always felt like replying, “that’s cute but I don’t think you understand. I wasn't just attached to my doll, I was addicted.”

That might sound dramatic, but it’s the truth. I would sniff them and get into a trance state where I wouldn’t speak. I particularly enjoyed the way Dolly's foot fit under my nose, so much so that in most pics, you can find me holding her upside down, sniffing her foot. 

While sniffing, my tongue would do this thing where it reflexively rested between my lips, ever so slightly poking out. I cannot explain it, but to this day it still happens when I sniff anything thats the right texture and comforting scent.

The Dollies smell like my dads t-shirt drawer in my childhood house in Mahwah.

And my dad’s t-shirt drawer from my childhood house in Mahwah smells like the most potent form of “Kern family smell.” You know that “family smell” that houses have?  It's like, some combination of their laundry detergent, the materials used to build their house, the pets that live in the house, the food they cook, and perhaps also a genetic chemical component of sorts? I can't say for certain what makes up this scent,  but I could confidently identify the “family smells” of all my closest childhood friends. 

Sometimes, while sniffing Dolly, I’d come across what I call a “crunchy spot,” which is a part of her terry cloth fabric that has somehow become hardened. I’d scratch at the crunchy spot or press it ever so slightly on the skin between my upper lip and my nose, reveling in the unexpected texture variation.

When other girls my age started getting American Girl Dolls, I didn’t understand the hype. This big plastic doll with creepy eyes wasn’t the right texture to sniff, and there weren’t even any crunchy spots to scratch on. I didn’t care that you could brush their hair and change their outfits– I preferred to sniff and scratch my tattered doll with my tongue out.

Once my grandma took me and my two cousins to The American Girl Doll shop in the city for a tea party. We got on the Metro North train in Westchester, where my cousins lived, each of us holding our respective dolls. My cousins– Amy and Erica– with their American Girl Dolls, and me, with none other than Dolly. 

The restaurant in The American Girl Doll Shop was complete with little black and white striped clip-on high chairs for the doll to sit in, and they even went as far to give the dolls their own utensils and place setting.

I remember feeling self-conscious about bringing Dolly since she was pretty well-loved at this point, and I was getting to the age where it was acceptable to have American Girls, but not as acceptable to have a lovie that you slept with.

I will never forget what happened when tea was being poured at our table that day. 

A man in a tuxedo (a little overkill for serving kids and dolls, if you ask me) came around to pour tea for everyone. He started with my cousin Amy, first pouring tea for her, then for her American Girl, who was clipped into the doll-sized-chair, neatly sitting next to her.

Then he moved onto my cousin, Erica, pouring tea for her, and then for her American girl sitting next to her.

Me and Dolly were next. He poured tea for me, then paused and scanned Dolly up and down– her eyes no longer visible, marker drawn on her face, slouching in the too-big doll chair made for American Girls, not stuffed lovies.

“Does she want tea,” he asked me in a snotty tone.

My heart sank with embarrassment. 

Of course she wants tea you asshole! You poured all the other dolls tea without question, why are you treating my doll differently? Just because she didn’t cost $100 and doesn't have silky hair and fancy clothes doesn’t mean she doesn’t want tea!

I don’t remember what I actually replied to him, but this is one of my earliest memories of feeling aware of being treated differently based-on what you have.

Looking back, I laugh thinking about the man whose literal job was pouring tea for bougie little girls and their dolls. He was in no position to judge.

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A few years later, I’d eventually get my hands on an American Girl Doll of  my own. I don’t think I ever authentically wanted one, but naturally, I wanted to fit in.  

I got the one that was supposed to look like me, except I thought it was kinda dumb because she didn’t really look like me. She had bangs and pin straight hair and at the time, I had wavy hair with no bangs. I remember not really knowing what to do with her. 

Once my childhood best friend had a birthday party where everyone brought over their American Girl Dolls and we sat in front of the TV watching a movie, brushing their hair. While brushing my Girl’s hair, I came across a knot and apparently pulled too hard. I looked down and her head had fallen off her body. I panicked, quickly scrambling to try and get her head back on before anyone noticed. 

I didn’t want my doll to be seen as defective because that would’ve somehow meant I, myself, might be seen as defective. 

I couldn’t seem to keep my dolls pristine and put together like some of the other girls my age.

I liked my dolls the way I like my life— messy and lived-in.

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I ultimately stopped sleeping with my dollies when I was 20 because they were so dirty that I was convinced they were giving me acne. In their absence, I sleep with an old t-shirt that has the right musty, lived-in scent.

For reference, this is a pic of what each doll looked like new:

And this is a pic of what they looked like after 20+ years of love.

The dollies now live in my closet, in a reusable Urban Outfitters shopping bag. Every once and a while when I’m getting dressed, I sneak a sniff for old times sake.