DO DOLLS freak you out? They freak me out.
When I was little, there were only two dolls I could tolerate. One was a smallish, very thin and spinsterly-looking Raggedy Ann. She had a little, white bunny rabbit doll to go with her and I loved her.
The other one I liked was named Emily and she had huge blonde hair, blue eyes, and the prettiest pink dress I had ever seen.
However, all of our other dolls totally scared me. The ratted hair, the rolling eyes (or lack thereof), and the scary hands haunted my dreams. Well . . . maybe not. But they scared me.
I remember one time when I was about six, Molly had put all of her’s and Kathryn’s dolls under my trundle bed. That night, of course, I really, really, really needed to go use the bathroom, but the thought of putting my feet down on the floor where the dolls could reach them totally scared the peewaddin’ out of me. I found a way past this major problem, however. I stood on my bed, leaped off, hit the ground running and sped toward the bathroom—proving that fear can help a six-year-old make Jesse Owens look like Freddie the Sloth.
Of course, if I had thought about it hard enough, I would have realized that the wolf that lived under my bed had probably eaten the dolls all up.