The Christmas before I turned four, my mom gave me a doll. It had tons of thick, dark hair, olive skin and the most perfect, hazel eyes I’d ever seen. She wore a light blue (or maybe it was pink…) button-up onesie and her eyes closed whenever she laid down.
I loved that doll.
But it wasn’t just because of her thick, dark hair (just like mine) or her olive skin and hazel eyes (also, just like mine), it was because my mom, who I adored more than any person in the world, had picked her out just for me. I remember my mom telling me that she had driven from toy store to toy store searching for a doll with thick, dark hair, olive skin and hazel eyes – but there was nary a doll to be found. So she searched and searched and finally, at our favorite toy shop in the neighboring town – she found her. On the very top shelf, looking down, waiting for a family to take her home.
I loved that doll hard. I loved her until her thick. dark hair was thinning from too much brushing and her olive skin shone with several thousand layers of pretend makeup applications. Until her light blue (or maybe it was pink…) button-up onesie was long gone and only one of her hazel eyes closed when she laid down.
The though my doll is long gone now, I still remember holding her soft body with sturdy plastic limbs, putting blush on her olive cheeks and combing her thick, dark hair. But most of all I remember thinking about my mom, driving from toy store to toy store looking to find the perfect doll, who looked just like me.