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Theresa Allen
by
Baby Doll
Most of my earliest memories aren't really "memories." They are more like
snapshots, still-life pictures randomly chosen by some higher intelligence with
a mean sense of humor, which float to the surface with no apparent meaning, no
discernable explanation or deeper significance. For instance, I remember
standing in the backyard of the house that we lived in when I was just more than
1 year old staring at the rusted, wire fence that separated us from our
neighbors. I also remember, from roughly the same age, standing in front of the
toilet, unwinding handful after handful of toilet paper from the spool and
depositing each handful into the toilet.
My first, real, clear memory that came with a definable context was from the
time when I was 2 and a ½. It was in the new house. The sun was shining through
a window on to a bowl of split pea soup. Granny was helping me with the spoon
and telling me that I was the only child in the history of mankind who enjoyed
eating vegetables and split pea soup. It was early autumn. Leaves were starting
to turn colors and on that particular morning, the air was wonderfully crisp and
clean.
Mid-bowl, the front door swung open. My parents entered the house ushering with
them a suitcase, several medical boxes, and a small bundle wrapped up in a
"Property of Mercy Hospital" blanket.
The bundle was soon making word sounds. He was a sweet bundle, with a very good
nature. I had been just the opposite. The only talking that I did before 3 years
of age was to myself during nap time when no one was around. I was colicky and
difficult to cuddle which meant that intimacy with me came with an ear-piercing
price tag.
The bundle fit wonderfully into my doll clothes. So, there was this oblivious
little bundle dressed in gingham, then in plaid, then taffeta, holding court
with an older female sibling and a gaggle of naked, plastic attendants. What was
really a riot was dressing the bundle up in one doll outfit or another and then
letting him walk, or, more appropriately, waddle, out of my bedroom, down the
carpeted hallway to the laundry room, and watching his reaction to the black and
white checkered, tile floor. The bundle, upon reaching the threshold of the
laundry room floor, would stand and stare for a moment. Then, get down on all
fours, and carefully place one hand in a black square, the other in a white
square, and inch his ginghamed, sashed upper body forward until he could place
his knees in squares also, one in a black square, the other in a white. Then, he
would proceed on all fours, carefully progressing from one layer of squares to
the next with strategically placed hands and knees, until he got to the
threshold of the kitchen. Once there, he would stand up and continue walking as
he had done from my bedroom.
Several times a day, every day of the week, I would go through this exercise
with the bundle, who proved to be as predictable and regular as a Seth Thomas
Metronome. I never tired of watching him ascend the level surface of the laundry
room floor as one would a staircase. The bundle's routine across the tile floor
kept me amused for countless of my preschool hours. At times, the novelty would
start to wane so I would "spice things up." Once, before letting him loose into
the hallway in a Chatty Cathy party dress, I put my Mary Jane's on him, right
shoe on left foot, left shoe on right. He was my own, special piece of
performance art.
It was a summer afternoon, while I was watching the bundle get down on all
floors at the threshold of the laundry room floor, when my mother called out to
me from the front room. Without thinking, I turned and pranced into the front
room to find that her uncle had come over with a gift for me and the bundle, a
beagle puppy. But as soon as I got my hands on the puppy, a loud, earth shaking
shriek filled the house. We found the bundle standing before the entrance of the
laundry room. Tears were rolling down his face. He couldn't tackle "the
staircase" without my observance. Upon my arrival, he stopped crying and
proceeded, totally unaware of the dog, to "climb the floor."
So, I began to hold court with a beagle puppy, Granny called him "kastanaki" but
I called him Warren, and the bundle dressed up in all the finery that my poor
naked-as-jaybird dollies could sacrifice. Warren proved to be much more of a
dressing challenge than the bundle ever was. After many unsuccessful attempts to
thread his front legs into Baby-See-And-Say's christening gown, the doll dresses
were, once again, the sole domain of the bundle. Court was in session until it
came time for me to start Kindergarten.
At 7:30 am, my mother took me by the hand and led me out the door. But before we
could get beyond the lawn to the sidewalk, the bundle came running out of the
house wearing his training pants and a white, chocolate-milk stained t-shirt. He
was screaming, just like the day when Warren joined us. His face was red and
contorted. Tears were flowing down his chubby little cheeks. He yelled something
that sounded like, "Doe Bleed Mit Ow Me!"
"Doe Bleed Mit Ow Me!"
It's too late Bundle, I had no choice. I had to leave without you.
February, 1999, July 2004
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