Child Rearin' no image

Published on May 13th, 2014 | by Richard Black

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Show and Tell, My Daughter’s “Collections” and a Possible Cause for Concern

When asked this morning what she wanted to bring to “Show and Tell” my daughter chose the following…well I’m not sure what to call it. Here’s a picture of the…display. Yes let’s call it a display.

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It’s the most benign term I can think of and one I hope won’t prompt DCS to knock on my door in a few days or hordes of child therapists to solicit me for a few hundred bucks a week.

Darcy could have brought just about anything else to school in our house that would have been less unnerving. I’ve got a circular saw in the basement. She could have hauled that into the classroom and shown it off to the kids. We’ve also got a meat cleaver in the kitchen and a bottle of prescription muscle relaxants which I imagine would have prompted less concern than, well, lets face it, a cage full of naked dolls.

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I’ve always thought that naked dolls were about as unnerving as things could get  but I was wrong. Put them in a cage and the discomfort rockets to IBS proportions. There’s just something about a naked doll, one that only possesses the rudiments of secondary sex characteristics, that makes them look like they’re waiting to be possessed before cheerfully stabbing the household inhabitants a few dozen times.  I’d probably feel much more comfortable if the dolls had nipples or a bit of bush peeking out from under their bikinis but until we get those tightwads out of office it’s probably never going to happen.

That said, and my own issues notwithstanding, there’s nothing like walking into a room of fifty-some-odd dolls in the buff and splayed out on a child’s floor to make a man run into the street in a state of undress and screaming.

The first time I had the pleasure of witnessing this very event I was coming out of the bathroom and found the hallway festooned with little…naked…dolls. It looked like a tiny little C130 transport plane had crashed somewhere by the bedroom and  jettisoned its cargo on the way down. Instead of throwing out paratroopers or tanks however the floor was littered with miniature fairies and princesses all naked, watching, and judging and plotting…and judging.

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I did what any rational man would do and scooped up my daughter before barricading the two of us in the bathroom and calling 911. I had just procured a Loofah-on-a-stick to fight off the John Wayne Gacyesque freakshow whom, I was certain, had invaded my home when Darcy began to methodically disrobe a mermaid. I quickly thanked the Dispatcher for her time and ended the call without any more undue embarrassment.

Since then I’ve been welcomed into various places in my home a number of different times by nude dolls in various states of undress and have refrained from calling the police, a medium or a psychic. In all honesty I get where Darcy is coming from, at least a little bit with her fascination. I can remember undressing my sister’s Barbie’s way back when but after the eight hundredth time or so the act lost its thrill. My sister also plunged a sharpened pencil into my thing when I wouldn’t stop stripping her dolls which may have had something to do with my immediate disinterest in naked dolls and subsequent association with pain and pleasure but who’s to say?

Still I would have never thought in a few million years that my daughter would choose to bring a half a dozen naked dolls in a cage to school for show and tell. Call me conventional or a prude but that’s ,apparently, how I roll and have since grade school.  Darcy could have brought in a number of other toys (all with clothes) to school.  She was at Disney World a few weeks ago and we have a metric ton of paraphernalia she could have brought into class, all with their clothing.

What’s done is done and now I’m really just curious about the fallout.

When I picked Darcy up from school this afternoon I noticed a distinct aura of wariness from the other parents to say nothing about Darcy’s teacher. Most of the other kids brought in Elsa (fully clothed) or a Spiderman action figure (also fully clothed) or some other fully clothed and well loved item. All of which, in case anyone missed it, were wearing clothes.

At the very best my daughter’s teachers think I’ve got a really booming strip club. At the worst they’re probably thinking that I’m collecting Disney Princesses for my dungeon ala Cary Elwes in that delightful romp of a movie “Kiss the Girls”.

Either way I’m fairly certain that someone in the house is going to be in therapy and the smart money isn’t on my daughter.


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