I was never one to play with dolls. I did have a Barbie that I more or less bullied my parents into buying me when I was 12, but otherwise? No, with the exception of my Tiny Tears, named “Tiny.”
I loved that doll. My parents got her for me when my brother was about a month old — for Christmas when I was nearly 2. Tiny was my baby. Kirk was my mom’s baby. I grew up and Tiny remained my baby.
Tiny is old, sixty-two and change. Her rubber body is cracked and vulnerable. Oddly enough, the worst crack is on her left knee where my worst “crack” is, also. But she still has her pretty face and her purpose in life; to be the baby doll of a little girl. Two years ago, before I moved to Colorado, I sent my Tiny Tears and all her clothes (most of which were my newborn clothes) to my step-granddaughter.
Now my step-granddaughter has my Tiny Tears doll AND a new baby brother. The other day I got a photo showing me that Tiny is still doing her job. In the photo, Tiny is wearing the outfit my step-grandson wore home from the hospital after he was born.