My Brother Killed My Baby Doll
Let’s go way back to the early ’70s—I was 9 years old, and it was summer. Back then, you played outside all day, and rainy days found you inside. Either way, in my house, it was always “let’s torment a sibling day,” and you never knew when you got up that morning if you were going to be the tormentor or the tomentee.
This one summer day, I was the unfortunate tomentee. It was mid-afternoon—I remember it like it was yesterday! I was outside, playing with my little baby doll. You know the kind—rubber head, arms, and legs, with a soft, cloth-stuffed body.
Out of nowhere, my brother—just a year younger than me—came running past, snatched my baby out of my hands, and took off laughing! I bolted after him, but by the time I rounded the corner of the house, he was already halfway up the old apple tree, still laughing and swinging my poor baby by the arm!
I wasn’t much of a climber, so I stood at the bottom of the tree, tears welling up, yelling for him to give my baby back. But of course, he just laughed harder, taunting me with, “Come and get it!” as he dangled her just out of reach.
I jumped, stretched, and tried everything I could to grab her, but he kept her just far enough away. Then, ever so slowly, he lowered her down—just enough for me to grab her leg. And when I finally did… he yanked.
RIPPPPP.
My poor baby doll tore almost in half. I was horrified. He dropped her, and I ran, sobbing, straight to Mom. “He ripped my baby, Mom!!”
Mom, bless her heart, was sympathetic—but practical. She handed me one of Dad’s old white t-shirts, a needle, and some thread and said, “You go fix her.”
So, I sat on the back porch, stuffed her with that t-shirt, and stitched her up the best my 9-year-old hands could. I don’t remember how much longer I kept that baby doll after that, but I’ll never forget the day my brother killed my baby.
Funny how a ripped baby doll can stick in your memory for decades. It wasn’t just a broken toy—it was a moment that taught me a little about resilience, creativity, and the fine art of sewing under emotional distress. Thanks for that one, little brother… I guess.
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