Little girls are supposed to love baby dolls, and so I did. Well, except for the scary one, Baby First Step, who lurched like Frankenstein’s monster when she “walked” across the room. And then there was one that “ate” if you shoved a plastic spoon into its mouth, and its gears would make a horrible grinding noise while it worked its jaws, managing to convey both the menace and the surreal silliness of a Japanese horror movie monster.
My mother actually threw away one of my dolls after she spent a half an hour, desperate for sleep and not wanting me or my baby sister to wake up, crawling around my bedroom in the dark and trying to find its pacifier while it “cried” with all the delicacy of a smoke alarm.
I wasn’t so much into the baby dolls. They were kinda creepy and annoying.
I liked Barbie and her friends, though. I didn’t, however, treat them at all well. I wasn’t really into their clothes, and I kept losing their shoes, so mostly, when I wasn’t making up elaborate plot lines for them which I never bothered to enact since making up the story was all the fun, I would make them fly around naked (a special feat they could only perform with their legs twisted up in an unnatural position behind their heads. Also, I would conduct experiments on their hair.
I totally deserved it when my dog once threw up an intact Skipper head. At my feet.