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Jenny was my Cabbage Patch doll. She had a wooden cradle that my grandfather made, and her clothes were a mix of my old baby clothes, and dresses that my grandmother made to match dresses that she made for me. She has been getting dusty in my parents’ attic for years and years and years, but a month or so ago, she got wiped down and her bedding was washed, and she was introduced to Hanna.
Hanna knew her immediately. “Baby night-night,” she said, and put Jenny to bed in her cradle. Jenny always sleeps on her stomach, with the blanket up over her head, just like I always find Hanna sleeping when I go in to check on her before I go to bed. Hanna shares her snacks with Jenny (“Baby shereal! Baby shuice!”), reads stories to Jenny, changes Jenny’s diaper (“Baby di!”), brushes her hair (“Baby brush!”) and helps her get dressed (“Baby dess! Baby shurt!”). Jenny is currently lying naked on her blanket, because Hanna wanted to give her a bath (“Baby baff!”). Earlier, she dressed Jenny in her own bunny t-shirt and held her up to the window, describing the scene outside. I watch her playing, so serious, so purposeful, and it makes me want to cry. I swear yesterday she was just learning how to roll over, and now here she is, teaching her baby doll about cars and trees and dogs. She’s so tiny, and she’s already trying to take care of someone.
Of course, today is a good day. Tomorrow she may get frustrated and throw Jenny off the back of the couch when she can’t get her arm to fit in her sleeve properly. But lord knows I’ve gotten that frustrated with my baby too sometimes, so I guess it’s all a natural part of the process.
