Green eyes lead to dolly’s death;
Twice a dolly loses breath.
One girl delights, while one girl cries;
Each one’s truth, the other’s lies.
It is hard now to imagine, but dolls used to do nothing. No crawling, no digital burping.
One day, however, along came the doll of the future: The first doll to move “like a real baby”.
A baby who’d had Jack Daniels:
The doll’s head would loll and droop and slowly roll around on its shoulders.
All you had to do was wind up a giant round crank on its back and ignore the giant loud cranking sound as the giant spring inside unwound.
And because all the moving parts were so giant, so was the doll. A shout-out to Ideal for their chutzpah in christening her “Thumbelina”—no bigger than a thumb.
She was two armfuls of HUMONGOUS.
The first year Jumbolina was marketed, I received her as my Christmas gift. Despite her typical German doll face—squinched and angry-looking—I was thrilled. I lugged her huge hulk with me everywhere.
Yet, by my birthday in January, she was nowhere to be found.
Days and then weeks of searching failed to find her. I was desolate. My family cared not a whit.
Only when the spring thaw came and the snow melted from our back yard was Thumbelina’s location revealed:
Her plastic head and limbs were distributed at far separate parts of the yard. Her empty cloth body lay limp at the base of a tree trunk, with her tossed stuffing looking like old dirty snow on the ground.
What had happened? My brother spilled the beans:
My green-eyed younger sister Megan had taken my treasured Thumbelina, swung her by one leg, and bashed her repeatedly against the tree trunk until her helpless (yet zaftig) body burst asunder.
Her firmer limbs had scattered to seek shelter from further abuse.
Meggie did not deny her evil deed. Yet my parents did nothing. Nor did they replace my doll.
Worse, for Megan’s May birthday, they presented to her the later, greater Baby Thumbelina.
No creaky, cranky, monster, this was a wee-sized bundle of huggable, head-turnin’ love.
It is two weeks post-Meggie’s birthday. Visualize with me:
An older two-door car. To get into the back seat, you have to flip the front seat forward.
Your little sister is climbing in the back. While the front seat is forward to let her pass in front of you, there is a gap at the base of that seat.
A gap exactly the size of a Baby-Thumbelina head.
Mere justice mandated that I match one head to one gap before slamming that front seat to its full and upright position. Which is when a wholly-satisfying crunch restored order to the universe.
Recently, I learned that by the time of her birthday, Megan had entirely forgotten that she had destroyed my doll first.
All these decades, she has carried the memory of the day her big sister tore her treasured brand-new baby Thumbelina from her loving arms and crushed its skull, for absolutely no reason. And laughed maniacally when she began to cry.
Each time I think of this, I am, at first, overswept with just a moment of deepest shame.
Then I laugh my #ss off.
The Rashomon effect is a term that has been used by a number of different scholars, journalists and film critics to refer to contradictory interpretations of the same events by different persons, a problem that arises in the process of uncovering truth.
The phrase derives from the movie Rashomon, where four witness’s accounts of a rape and murder are all different.–Wikipedia
2014-03-23–Added some pics, spaced out words a little better.