I remember my mom handing me the American Girl catalog telling me I might want one of dolls for Christmas. Explaining to me that she had once cherished her dolls as a child, these American Girl dolls were special because each one had their own story. I carefully chose Molly, the one from Illinois during WWII. I could have been more than six or seven years old, so I did not pick Molly for her background story. I chose Molly because she resembled me. She had long, straight chocolate hair. Her eyes were blue, but no one could really tell because of the glasses that surrounded them. Her skin tone was an alabaster color with a hint of red undertones. She wore a blue skirt and sweater, much like my school uniform. I instantly knew I had a connection with her.
I tore open her box on Christmas morning and Molly immediately became my beloved toy. I received a bed for her, a desk for her studies, and a chest for her numerous outfits. I did not care about any of my other presents; I only cared about making Molly feel at home. I immediately went upstairs and set up a living area for her in a corner of my room. I remember telling her all about my family, talking to her as if she were real. I dragged her around everywhere for about two years. I never had an imaginary friend, but I guess in a lot of ways Molly was mine.
As I grew out of my doll phase Molly went from having her own corner of my room, to having a shelf on my bookcase, and she still remains there in immaculate condition. All of her accessories are prominently displayed with her, and I hope to pass her down one day.
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