Dear Realistic Baby Doll (A Letter from a 3-year-old):
This is a sincere letter of gratitude for all of the wonderful benefits you have provided me.
As a three-year-old little girl, you may be surprised as to the limitations placed on me by life, at this point in time.
I’ve only been on this planet for like 1,000 days. Being a human being is brand new to me still. I’m trying the best I can, but it’s not always easy.
Here are just a few of the obstacles I face on a regular basis that you may have not known, prior to our time together:
I have no idea when I have to go to the bathroom. All of a sudden I feel like I should start dancing, then boom – Niagra Falls down my leg. It’s embarrassing for a whole slew of reasons, but mainly, it’s just an annoyance, because now I have to change my pants. And I have no idea how to get them off.
I want to eat cookies all day. For every meal. Every snack. Every chance I get. Unfortunately, it turns out that isn’t “a healthy option” according to my parents and “I should stop eating so much sugar because I am bouncing off the walls.” Parents just don’t understand.
I don’t sleep. I can’t. There’s way too much stuff to do. And have you ever seen a kid’s dreams? They are weird. Mostly me dreaming about peeing my pants and not being able to find cookies to eat. Does that sound fun? It’s not. Especially when there is also a dragon trying to eat me at the same time.
You, dear realistic baby, have changed all of these negatives, into positives.
You are small, delicate, quiet.
You like playing.
You don’t mind when I have to pause from playing to go change my pants.
You don’t mind when a crumb of cookie lands on your face.
You keep me company when I sleep.
You play fake house with me in the comfort of our home.
You provide me the support of real human interaction, through unique aesthetics.
I wanted to let you know you’ve become much more than a toy for me: you’re my rock.
You make everything OK.
Also, secretly, I blame you for everything. When my parents get upset, I use you as my tiny little scapegoat. And you like it.
“Why did you pee your pants?” Sorry, mom. The baby was distracting me.
“Who ate all those cookies?” Sorry, dad – I was playing pretend with the baby.
And at night? That’s when we play. So now I don’t wake up Mom and Dad.
Who knows, at this point, I may never sleep again.
You’re human friend, Marsha
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