Ghosts of dolls past appear at Christmas

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 23/12/2015 (3620 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

Allow me to paint a scene: it’s Christmas morning, 1989. I am four, and I have received what would go down in the books as one of the “it” dolls of the decade: Oopsie Daisy.

If you weren’t a little girl or the parent of a little girl in the late ’80s, Oopsie Daisy was a baby doll that would crawl, collapse and then cry. You had to help her up, only to start the cycle again. You know, a fun game for girls!

It was hate at first sight, Oopsie Daisy and I.

She was frustrating, but more than that, she was disturbing. Remember the infamous baby scene from Danny Boyle’s 1996 adaptation of Trainspotting? Then you have a pretty good idea of how Oopsie-Daisy crawled.

Oopsie Daisy would usher in an era of dolls that required mothering from their tiny owners. Like 1992’s Baby All Gone, which would eat, drink, wet and dirty her diaper so that you could change it. You know, a fun game for girls!

But oh, I loved dolls. I coveted them all. Christmas Eve would always be heavy with anticipation. When I rounded the corner into the living room on Christmas morning, there would be a new friend waiting for me under the tree, dewy plastic face illuminated by coloured lights, blonde hair — always blonde — gleaming.

You name a fad doll from the 1980s or early 1990s and I probably had it. Cabbage Patch Kids. Glo Worms. My Little Ponies.

Many of those dolls were confectionary, such as Cupcakes dolls, whose plastic cupcake liners would fold down into skirts. I distinctly remember the way my Cherry Merry Muffin doll smelled. Sickly sweet synthetic cherry-chocolate.

The dolls that could do stuff were always the biggest crowd pleasers — save for Oopsie Daisy, the terrifying nightmare doll, that is.

Then there were the dolls that worked as indoctrination agents of the beauty industry, basically, such as Li’l Miss Makeup and Li’l Miss Magic Hair, whose faces and hair changed colour with warm or cold water. Reality never quite lived up to the advertising. Li’l Miss Magic Hair always just looked as though she spent too long in a swimming pool, her hair frizzy and tinted green. Dolly Surprise was another hunk of plastic creating unrealistic expectations. If you raised her right arm, her ponytail would grow. Then you’d crank her left arm to wind it back into her head.

Many of my beloved dolls had their own cartoons, such as Jem and the Holograms. These shows were really just protracted commercials with lightweight plots, and I loved them all. Ah, the late 1980s. What a time to be alive.

And sure, through an adult lens, these pink, paraben-oozing dolls — each one a symbol of commercialism, capitalism and antiquated gender roles — are deeply problematic. But they unlocked my imagination. My dolls went on adventures. They solved mysteries. They got entangled in soap opera plots.

I always get nostalgic for my dolls at this time of year. They’re a reminder of a childhood well-spent, with seemingly endless sleepovers and play dates with friends and cousins. They’re a reminder of Christmas Eves past, and what it felt like to not be able to sleep.

Allow me to paint another scene. It’s Christmas morning, 1991. I am six, and Santa has brought me a dollhouse.

Of course, the workshop this beautiful wooden house was lovingly crafted in was not in the North Pole. My mom, dad, Poppa and Grammy made me this house, which had real linoleum in the kitchen, real shingles on the roof — features I was endlessly impressed by — and a gorgeous stained-glass window.

That house has long been taken apart, moved to make room for teenage things. But I will never forget the way I felt that morning.

jen.zoratti@freepress.mb.ca