fifteen minutes after she arrives home from the hospital, my mother insists that i come upstairs and see her dolls.  “how are you feeling?” i ask, with a fleeting and horrible hope that she’ll want to lay down or something, and i won’t have to see any dolls.  i’m not interested in dolls.  but she’s already halfway up the stairs.

my mother keeps her dolls in my old bedroom, which is now a combination guest room, doll barn, and book storage facility.  the only things left in the room that used to be mine are a desk, a floor lamp, and a chair with a footstool.  there are at least ten or fifteen dolls lined up on the desk and bookshelves, sitting next to one another or propped on metal stands.  most of them are wearing fluffy dresses and bonnets; a few have pants or shorts.  the babies wear little shapeless baby-outfits.  i can’t think of the word for them.

mom’s excited because the box of doll shoes came in the mail today, and she’s anxious to put new high heels on miss revlon.  “let me show you some of the doll clothes i’ve made,” she says, opening the desk drawers.  she takes out piles and piles of tiny lacy outfits, laying them on the bed for me to look at.  some of the doll clothes are old; i remember them from when i was little.  some are obviously newer, and some i don’t remember at all.  to amuse myself, i flop down on the bed and divide the clothes into two piles: i remember these and i don’t remember these.  i remember most of them because when my sister and i were little, my mother would make our clothes and our doll clothes from the same fabric, and sometimes in the same styles.  in the pile of doll clothes i remember, there is a little dress-and-bloomers outfit exactly like one i had when i was three or four.

while i’m looking at the clothes, she goes through the dolls individually, telling me about their names and their outfits and where she got them.  “this one’s called kindergarten kathy,” she says, “but i think i’ll just call her kathy.  it suits her.”  her bride doll has a new dress, patsyella needs different shoes, she bought this one from someone who didn’t realize how valuable and old it was, and she’s going to make another blouse for miss revlon, because it doesn’t match her skirt.  i start putting the new shoes on the dolls.

“why don’t they make boy dolls?” my sister says, coming in and perching on the edge of the bed.

“they do,” i say.

“why doesn’t mom have any, though?” she says.  my mother busies herself looking for socks for the doll with the short hair.

“i dunno,” i say, “but that one over there could be a boy.”  i point to one of the hairless, genderless babies, sitting on the bookshelf in between two other dolls.

“i guess, but that’s still just one out of fifteen,” my sister says.  she begins looking though my piles of i remember and i don’t remember.

“i know.  my god, it’s like utah in here.”

“what, all these women with just one man?”

“yes.”

“eww.  most of these dolls are definitely too old for him.”

“i know, especially miss revlon with her high heels and pantyhose.  the hussy.”  i look at my mom for a reaction.  she’s diligently arranging the dolls on the desk, trying not to pay attention to us, but i can see her smiling.