American Girl

By Allison Kaplan

I made the mistake of taking my mom to the American Girl Place: A little girl's dreamland where 7-year-olds and their precious dolls buy matching ballerina dresses. Or, three levels of overpriced, over-indulgent consumer excess for spoiled girls whose dolls dress better than most humans -- depending on your perspective.

What I hadn't figured on was a third standpoint: Utopia for wannabe grandmas.

The damage was done as soon as she laid eyes on miniature tap shoes and tiny flannel pajama sets imprinted with pink bears. All around us, wide-eyed girls in pig tails and velvet dresses carried dolls with pig tails and matching velvet dresses. It was eerie, really. But my mother oohed and aahed right along with them. My mother and I had stumbled into an age-inappropriate activity, not that you could blame us for wondering just what goes inside that secret society. Michigan Avenue in Chicago has become a sea of American Girl Doll shopping bags and we wanted to know why.

We intruded, discovering the fancy tea room where dolls get their own little doll chairs and little portions of real food. Now I wanted to go back to the women's department at Marshall Field's. Heck, I only got out of Juniors a few years ago, I reminded Mom. Then my adult independence was struck its most devastating blow -- by the Hanukkah doll. That American Girl Doll Company thinks of everything, including a fire-proof toy menorah for the petite brunette in a royal blue party dress and black paten leather shoes, a sparkling Star of David around her plastic neck. She was posed in the display case lighting the candles.

I told my mother what I'd really like for Hanukkah this year is tall leather boots or a new suitcase - with wheels, preferably. She could care less. My mom wants to buy dolls and tea sets and dresses the size of your palm.

She thinks I should provide her with a recipient.

What is happening here? I thought parents were supposed to dread becoming grandparents because it means they're getting old. At least I've tried emphasizing that angle. But my parents are beyond fearing a few wrinkles. They want babies. More disturbing, they want me to have the babies.

It doesn't seem possible I could be old enough that my parents would be happy if I were pregnant. I just got out of college two, okay five, years ago. Sure, I'm getting married in May - but that seems reality enough to last us a few years. I still live in an apartment that resembles a dormitory much more than a home where a mom and dad would live. Besides -- and this argument is sure to make them falter -- my parents were older than I am when they had their first child. So I don't want to hear any more of this "all of our friends have grandchildren" argument. I asked them, if your friends decided to jump off a bridge, would you do that too?

I'll give my parents this much -- our family has become decidedly adult. Hanukah parties are clothing intensive, with a sprinkle of non-fiction books and CDs. Sometimes the poodle will lunge into a garbage bag of wrapping paper and bows, but that's about the extent of the holiday chaos.

I thought I might shake my mom out of this little girl mode by reminding her that I was never much for dolls, even as a child. I was the kid who threw stuffed animals out of her bed. The only doll I ever liked was Baby Tenderlove. In my day, dolls didn't come with books that sketched out their life story set in like 1725 - props available by special order. Baby Tenderlove was just a doll who sometimes wore clothes and often didn't. We didn't have matching pearl bracelets or terrycloth robes. She was just a doll with washable hair which I shampooed so many times, it grew stiff as straw and stuck straight up so she couldn't wear butterfly barrettes like the other dolls.

Some things skip a generation, like illnesses and twins, so my mom thinks her love of dolls might be like that. And the glass case of porcelain storybook dolls I never played with could finally be passed on to an appreciative little girl.

I told my mom, strictly for argument's sake, that even if I have a baby -- one day, years and years down the road -- there's no guarantee I'll have a girl.

My mother squeezed my hand and whispered knowingly, "We can hope."

I'll confess, I'm with her on that one.

Want to contact Allison? Write her on the Internet at Singlstyle@aol.com