In recent days, it seems like my two-year old son would like to take every single toy that he owns outside in order to play with them there. It's as though somehow toting his pile of playthings out into the great outdoors will make them even more fun than they already are in the comfortable confines of the house. If I have said, "No, you may not take _____ outside with you to play." once in the last two weeks, I have said it forty-seven times. I am not so old that I am unable to understand the allure of dragging all your cars and trucks and trains and playing cards, and playdoh, and crayons, and plastic livestock out into the backyard in order to play with them. It's true that our yard is a much more interesting locale than our boring old living room. That being said, I am old enough to realize the unfortunate consequences of exposing your toys to a bit of fresh air from time to time.
Playtime al fresco will result in metal matchbox cars that desperately need a new paint job after speeding through the scratchy sand. Trucks will be forgotten in a shady corner of the patio. Their once working parts will quickly rust solid, rendering your once rolling big rigs completely immobile. Trains will also begin to seize and sputter on their tiny tracks after only a few hours of exposure to the salty sea air. Paper playing cards will grow damp if accidentally forgotten on the dew covered lawn. Like some kind of specialty prop for half-rate magicians, your carelessly forgotten jack of diamonds will magically separate into four distinct layers of wrinkly weathered card stock. Your pristine pots of playdoh will become hopelessly polluted and pocked with pebbles, pollen and potting soil. And, any colorful crayons that you leave lying around on the back porch will be slowly seared by the sun until they eventually become melty, molten pools of weather beaten wax. And this, my dear, is not even the worst of it.
At some point, it is inevitable that you will leave a piece of your plastic livestock behind after sending the whole herd out to pasture in the tall weeds. For a bit, this careless oversight by a distracted herder will go unnoticed, only to be accidentally rediscovered by the trusty old lawn mower in the weeks to come. I can say with one hundred percent certainty that your poor father will not be happy when his right front shin is shockingly assaulted by an out of control spinning plastic sheep that has been kicked out of the weeds by the whirling blades of the push mower. And you will be super sad when you discover that despite miraculously surviving a life-threatening lawn trimming accident, your sweet little sheep now only has three legs instead of the usual four.
I know about these things because when I was a little girl, we had a three-legged sheep who used to spend his days limping around our holiday manger scene. He was never the kind of sheep that ventured outdoors, but I believe an unfortunate fall from the treacherous edge of the dining room table was responsible for the loss of his right rear lamb limb. Despite his unfortunate disability, he is a hearty little creature who to this day continues to trot out to his special place under Pop Pop and Grammy's Christmas tree each and every December. Inevitably, the delicate condition of his right rear appendage is often forgotten from year to year. After setting him in place, only to have him fall over several times, whoever is responsible for arranging the holiday stable eventually remembers why this poor little sheep is so unusually unsteady. One of his little lamby pals has the luxury of being carried on the shoulders of a shepherd. Another of his baa-ing barnyard buddies was carefully carved in the prone position. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the only remaining sheep in the flock. Instead of becoming the last sheep standing, proud and tall at the heels of one of the three gentle shepherds, this poor little pile of wobbly wool has to be inconspicuously propped up against one of the rear walls of the stable. If this precaution is not put into place, the poor little three-legged lamb falls over at even the slightest vibration, threatening even greater catastrophic damage to his three remaining shaggy sheep shanks.
Sheep in need of prosthetic limbs aside, I really do understand where my son is coming from. As a child, I clearly remember relentlessly pestering my sweet mother in an ongoing attempt to persuade her to allow me to drag all of my favorite playtime pals out onto the lawn with me. It was lonely out there with only a bunch of sticks and weeds and rocks to play with. Practically living off the grid without access to a bunch of playmates meant I was desperate for a little buddy to accompany me on my exciting outdoor adventures. I mean who was I supposed to share my outdoor experiences with if no children my age lived within a six mile radius of our home? I at least wanted to be accompanied by a pretend pal whenever I dug in the sandbox, played on the swing set, rode my big wheel, walked on stilts, played hopscotch, twirled baton, ran through the sprinkler, splashed in the kiddie pool, or hurled my body down the slip and slide. (Okay, I have to admit that the last item on the list never actually happened as the in house safety committee would have never, ever signed off on the purchase of something as inherently dangerous as a slip and slide.)
If I couldn't get my hands on a real live kid, it was only fair that I be allowed to arrange for a temporary stand in until other kids my age were available for a prearranged play date. Stuffed animals were right out as their ability to suck up moisture and grow swiftly soggy was glaringly obvious even to an overoptimistic preschooler like myself. The family dog was actually willing to go along with my outdoor antics for quite a while, but even she had her limits. Her patience and endurance often began to flag after being continuously tortured by countless hours of chic doggy dress up and distinguished hair styling for hounds. Eventually, no amount of milkbone bribery could keep her by my side for yet another luxurious bout of puppy pampering in my imaginary backyard beauty parlor for discriminating doggies. She much preferred a more solitary, less hands on, existence. After a long, harrowing morning of permitting me to work my magic in the form of yet another signature mutt makeover, the family dog spent the remainder of the afternoon laying on her side, sprawled out in the shade, snoozing. She could be observed occasionally squinting in the direction of her tiny human charge, through one half closed eyeball, in order to make sure that the mean neighborhood German Shepherd wasn't attempting to take my tiny arm off while she caught a few much deserved doggy zzzz's.
Despite my campaign for a partner in crime that I could happily drag with me around the yard, I continued to come up empty handed. I occasionally suggested that my parents solve the problem of my solitary existence by providing me with a new sibling. Surprisingly, they were not the slightest bit willing to get on board with my exciting plan to add an additional child to our existing family of five. Truth be told, I never pushed too hard for this particular option. After all, I was sharp enough to recognize that adding another baby to our brood meant that my preferred status as the spoiled, bratty youngest would be rather quickly compromised.
If my parents wouldn't agree to go out and rustle me up a new baby brother or sister, I would have to make do with the next best thing, a precious little baby doll. In fact, I already owned two little dolls who were dressed in beautiful white christening type gowns that my grandmother had given to me as gifts. Surely, one of these two baby beauties could accompany me out into the wilderness. Unfortunately, their willingness to be dragged around the lawn by yours truly was intercepted by my mom, who vetoed this plan as well. Despite her flat out refusal to allow me to ruin two perfectly good dolls, she understood my plight and offered up an alternative in the form of the perfect outdoor companion, a unique creature, aptly named Beat Up Old.
I'm not quite sure where exactly we obtained dear Beat Up Old, but I will always remember her fondly no matter what her mystery origins happened to be. She may have been a secondhand castoff passed down from my older sister. It was also entirely plausible that she was an unbeatable bargain picked up at a neighborhood yard sale. I was too young to remember how we acquired her, I only knew that I loved her to pieces. She came by her name honestly as my mom would gently remind me that the only indoor toy that I was actually allowed to take outside with me was my "beat up old" doll. This sentence was uttered so frequently that eventually the entire family just began referring to my grubby faced outdoor doll as "Beat Up Old".
I am uncertain if Beat Up Old ever actually had any doll clothes of her own. If she once owned some kind of frilly doll-sized frock, it was long ago sullied by bright green grass stains and accidental fallout from extra sloppy mud pies. I can't speak to the fact if she ever owned a wardrobe as the only way I remember her was as a proud little nudist. She had a pinkish-beige cloth covered body and her plastic arms, legs, and head were carefully sewn onto this stuffing-filled, flesh-toned frame. Of course, my sister and I had lots of spare doll clothes tucked away in our toy box, but unfortunately, none of them were the perfect match for poor Beat Up Old. Unlike Goldilocks, there was no outfit in our joint possession that fit just right. The giant pile of doll clothes that my sister and I owned were either way too big and constantly fell off or way too tiny and didn't fit over her super sized noggin. So, Beat Up Old was left to roam the yard in her plain old birthday suit.
Speaking of her noggin, let's have a chat about delightful dolly hairdos. A few of my female cousins and childhood friends used to proudly own a collection of beautiful dolls. These dolls came with special stands so that they could be elegantly displayed on dressers, shelves, or tables in bedrooms and playrooms. I am quite certain that most of these dolls were far too expensive to ever venture outside of the room where they were carefully placed, let alone the house. Their delicate dresses were arranged just so and their unbelievable up-dos were salon worthy styles. Every curl was perfectly pinned in place with beautiful ribbons and baubles. This was not the case for poor Beat Up Old. Just like her original outfit remained a mystery to me, so did her original haircut. I only remember her post modern makeover. I am sure that when I acquired her, she had long lovely locks of silky synthetic hair, but you can only drag a doll around the back forty for so long before her hair starts to look a wee bit bedraggled. After one too many irremovable tangles, unfortunate chewing gum and lollipop incidents, and well-meaning organic mud bath hair treatments, Beat Up Old developed the kind of bad hair day that was chronic and incurable.
There was only one thing that could be done to save her hair and that was to give her a seriously short shearing. I was hoping that when my mom was finished furiously lopping away at her once lovely locks (not that I personally ever remember her having a beautiful bouffant but I'm certain she once did have one, just not when I owned her) that she would end up with a cute little pixie cut just like me. That was not exactly how it turned out as her plasticky doll hair was far too damaged to warrant keeping very much of its original length. My mom made a valiant effort, but after numerous attempts to successfully save her with a sweet little short cut, she was left with a single, less than desirable option.
Beat Up Old ended up sporting a spiky, bleach blonde crew cut, looking like she would fit in better at the annual convention of a somewhat androgynous gang of female bikers than at the local playground. Despite her edgy new hairdo, I loved Beat Up Old all the same and continued to carry her almost everywhere I went on my daily adventures in the great outdoors. Others might have thought it a bit odd to see a little girl toting a nekkid doll around that was a dead ringer for that nineties fitness guru Susan Powter, but my whole family and I had become oblivious to the fact that Beat Up Old was quite unlike any other doll on the planet. Unless you were in the business of combing through old garbage dumps and abandoned out buildings in search of antiques and long forgotten treasures, you had never seen a doll like Beat Up Old. Even if you were into junk picking as a hobby, and seeing dolls like Beat Up Old was a routine occurrence, it was still extremely rare to observe a doll in this kind of atrocious condition that was still tightly attached to the arm of the little girl who loved her.
Despite her outward appearance, I never gave up on Beat Up Old. I still had precious pretty indoor doll babies that I played with in the house, but none of them compared to Beat Up Old. The whole point of having a doll like Beat Up Old was that you could take her absolutely anywhere and you didn't have to worry about getting her dirty, messing up her hair, or ruining her clothes. All of those things had already happened, so she enjoyed complete and total doll freedom. There wasn't anywhere you couldn't take her. (Except maybe church, by all accounts, that one was right out.). If you accidentally left her hanging on the swing set and she got caught in a terrible thunderstorm, it was no big deal. If you forgot her in the woods during a game of hide and seek and your dad found her a few days later, you didn't get in trouble. Dad just brushed her off and handed her right back to you. (After a quick once over to check for fleas, ticks, and other outdoor vermin, of course.) If she flew off the back of your bike as you were pedaling at top speed down the driveway and landed in the middle of a mud puddle, there was no stress. You didn't have to endure the trauma and separation anxiety of waiting for your mom to run her through the washer, you just rinsed her off pretty good with the garden hose and went about your business with a slightly dampened dolly. If her left arm was accidentally dislocated in a freak tree climbing accident, no tears were necessary. A band-aid and some Bactine for your banged up elbow, a few quick sewing stitches for the lost limb of Beat Up Old, and the two of you were back on track in no time.
That was the beauty of a super sturdy, completely dependable, already well-broken-in doll baby like Beat Up Old. You just couldn't ruin her, no matter how hard you loved her. Just like her factory original hair and clothing, I can no longer recollect when and where we eventually parted ways. Not surprisingly, Beat Up Old was not found among the other beautiful dolls that my mom had carefully packed away to be someday handed down to her future grandchildren. Besides the fact that Beat Up Old was probably a walking petri dish of germs, who smelled a bit funny, and looked far worse, her somewhat rough outer appearance would probably be a bit frightening to any small child who didn't know her and love her from the beginning. Even my own family grew so accustomed to seeing me with this somewhat scary looking, slightly dingy doll, who lived life au naturale, that they were often shocked when outsiders publicly mentioned her deplorable condition. Even when faced with outright criticism from strangers, no one had the heart to separate me from the disheveled doll baby that I so clearly adored. I imagine that Beat Up Old was eventually retired after my mom found herself on the receiving end of one two many snarky comments in the checkout line at the grocery store. "Someone should buy that poor little girl a proper doll instead of making her carry around that hideous beat up old thing."
Little did they know, I was the proud owner of plenty of other pretty dolls in pristine condition. The flawless appearance of my other dolls was able to remain "just like new" because they usually never made it into the regular toy rotation. No doll could compare to Beat Up Old and she was the only doll I ever needed, even if she did look like I dug her out of a garbage dumpster. Besides, who wants a doll that costs so much, you're not even allowed to play with her. And, as for those perfectly coiffed dolls in designer duds that some of my friends and family owned and displayed for all to see, that kind of thing just wasn't for me. It's true that they were beautiful to look at and admire during the daytime, but once you turned off all the lights, I always thought those things turned a little creepy. I never enjoyed the feeling of all those perfect little dolls standing around the room staring at me all night long.
You never had to worry about that kind of thing with Beat Up Old. I didn't usually take her into bed with me. Despite the fact that I showered her with unconditional love during daylight hours, even I had my limits. We weren't completely blind to the fact that Beat Up Old was a dirty old outdoor doll, we just looked the other way most of the time. This did not include snuggling her little stinky body as you drifted off to sleep. Some things are just gross. I mean you wouldn't put your filthy, grass-stained little feet straight under the covers without at least pretending to rinse them off in the tub first, would you? I preferred to sleep with my little brown and white teddy bear, who played "Rock-a-bye, baby" when you wound up a tiny metal key on the left side of his fuzzy bear butt.
Besides, if you've ever tried to sleep with one of your baby dolls, you know it is not without its potential hazards. It's rather unpleasant to wake up somewhat disfigured with the extremely painful outline of a rock hard plastic baby doll arm permanently imprinted into the middle of your shoulder blade. Beat Up Old never minded being given the boot from the tiny bedroom that my sister and I shared when we were little girls. You could always count on Beat Up Old to be cool like that. She was perfectly content to spend her nighttime hours snoozing under the corner of the living room couch with all those cuddly little dust bunnies, lounging in the muddy garden next to a pretty green tomato plant, or sleeping in a cozy pile of sawdust, half-slumped over the radial arm saw table, out in the garage. She was too busy resting up for all the amazing adventures that we would have the following day to care about exactly where she sacked out for the night, and let's face it, it's not like she could have gotten any dirtier.
P.S. Thanks mom for allowing me to have at least one doll that I was actually allowed to take with me whenever I went outside to play. Sorry about those nasty people who threatened to call children and youth services on account of Beat Up Old. It was totally uncalled for and completely unfair. After all, it's not like I was the one running around the lawn naked as a jay bird, sporting a slightly crusty crew cut, with a two-inch layer of dirt caked on my face.
Posted with Blogsy
No comments:
Post a Comment