There are all sorts of bonuses to being a parent. One of my favorites is playing mind games with my daughter Allie. I realize that probably sounds sort of mean if you aren’t a parent, but I’m telling you: After a day of her breaking nearly everything she touches and melting down at the drop of a hat, a mind game or two is like a breath of fresh air.
Like today, when Adam, out of nowhere, began accusing Allie of not being a human, but of actually being a doll instead. In typical redhead fashion, she cursed the moon and the stars due to the accusation. Seeing the gemstone of a reaction she gave in response, we sort of ran with it.
“You have doll skin, Allie. It’s soft and plasticky like your doll Gary’s skin.”
“IS NOT!” she said wide-eyed, I could see the gears churning in her mind. Was she a doll?
“I think you might really be a doll, Allie.” I agreed with her Dad.
“I AM NOT A DOLL!” She said, clearly losing her shit and pondering the idea of divorcing her parents at the age of three.
Then, making matters more enjoyable, Allie decides to prove her point:
“DO YOU SEE MY HAIR? This is real hair, mommy! This is not plastic hair like what is on Gary’s head. My.Hair. Is. REAL!”
“Hmm,” Adam replied, touching her hair, “Well, some of your dolls have hair like yours. It could be doll hair.”
“GUYS! This isn’t funny.” She stomped around for a minutes. Finally, “PINCH MY SKIN!” she yelled, “ My skin is real!! It isn’t like doll skin. PINCH IT!”
I test her skin, assuring her that it does seem to feel like human skin. But you can never be too sure, she might still be a doll.
“Are you sure you aren’t a doll?” Adam asked.
“Oh my gosh, dad. I’m a HUUUUUMAN!” It was then that she threw her body onto the carpet. We had clearly exhausted her patience.
“Listen guys,” she says, “just try to pull my head off. Dolls heads come off. My head doesn’t come off. It stays on. I’m not a doll.”
Adam fell into the floor laughing. I laughed so hard that I couldn’t breathe. She was so serious about wanting us to attempt to pull her head off in the quest to prove that she was human and not a doll.
“Okay, I believe you.” I finally say. I kind of felt sorry for the kid. Her father is laying on the living room floor in hysterics, and I had played right along. But really, there is something nearly priceless about the look of frustration on her face sometimes.
Later, long after it was settled that she was human, when she woke up in the night, I went in to check on her.
“Are you okay, Allie?” I asked. She had called out.
“Yes,” she sighed, rubbing her sleepy eyes “But don’t ever tell me I’m a doll again.”
Tell us: How do you joke around with your children?
Originally published on ShamelesslySassy