I was probably eight or nine when the big Cabbage Patch Kid craze hit. Our next door neighbor, a little girl with every toy and every fancy dress, already had two by Christmas. And it was all I wanted. It was all any of us wanted.

My mom turned finding that doll into a religion. She was determined that my sister and I would have one. This was rare, because as far as material possessions went, my mom could always take or leave just about anything. But she knew how badly we wanted those dolls. She searched high and low, elbowing other mothers in countless stores around town. Because it was before the days of cell phones, friends of hers would see one in the store, and call her when they got home. By the time my mom raced out to that store, the booty was gone.

She eventually ordered us the dolls from Dolgins (remember that store?), but it was obvious it was going to be a long time.

So, armed with some nylon, yarn, and cut-up pieces of a gallon container of milk, she set about making each of us a Cabbage Patch Doll, replete with outfits and even diapers. She worked on those dolls well into the night for weeks.

Dear god in heaven, those things were ugly.

It wasn’t her fault– she followed the pattern. But the truth is that Cabbage Patch babies were also quite ugly, and the hand-sewn alternative was never going to improve on the original– just detract.

Eventually, the day came for us to stand at the Dolgin’s conveyor belt. My little yellow-haired Belinda Wendy and my sister’s little red haired doll came down the conveyor belt, and we loved them immediately and without reason.

My mother’s hand-sewn baby dolls went by the wayside. I don’t remember playing with them again once Wendy (and eventually her two sisters and a brother from Russia) arrived. We loved Cabbage Patch dolls so much that one  year my parents drive five hours out of the way on our vacation to take us to Cabbage Patch General, the “birthplace” of the babies.

It’s funny. At the time, all I wanted in the world was one of those ugly little dolls.

Today, at 33, I wish like heck I had the dolls my mother made instead.

I’ve gone on all-night sewing rampages to make just the right pirate outfit for Noise or just the right shirt for Funk. Ive been there, back sore from bending over the machine, eyes tired from a full day of work and parenting. I know how your mind convinces you that those kids are going to be so grateful for all of the work you put in, the love and the effort.

Only to have that child completely spurn the thing you spent nights and nights sewing. I once spent six hours in one night making Noise a cape that he begged for, picked out the fabric for, and nagged me about for weeks. He refused to put the damn thing on. To this day, he has only worn that thing once or twice.

I know that my mom made those dolls out of so much love and dedication to us. It must have killed her when we cast them aside for the cheaply made originals. But she never really said a word about it to us. I guess that’s just what moms do for their kids when it comes to that special toy or special thing.

Last year, I stopped at eight McDonald’s in between Lawrence and St. Louis just to collect the last two toys in the Shrek set that we couldn’t find. The Prince and that damn dronkey. I was obsessed. (Strangely, a lot more so than my kids.) I just wanted them to have the whole set. And I since I love sets, I couldn’t let it go. I hope that was love speaking.

You know, rather than the crazy.

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