Dale's Doll

Dale's Doll - Part One

Listening, listening while I wash up all of the breakfast bowls, cups and cutlery before needing to take my little girl to nursery and get myself to work on time.

I like these moments.

No, I love these moments.

I treasure capturing my daughter sweetly and innocently chatting away to her toys before we both have to leave the house; usually in an hurried and stressful fashion.

As a mother, I adore my precious pre-schooler.

Delilah is a much-loved and much-wanted little girl, by both myself, and my husband of eight years.

Having had two heart-breaking miscarriages before Delilah, each and every anxious month into the pregnancy with her, meant that both Vince and I, were getting ever closer to being the parents that we always longed to be.

So when the dark haired Delilah was finally pushed out into the world, all of our hopes and our dreams were at last held by us—safely swaddled within the softest lemon-coloured blanket that we could buy.

Our darling Delilah is a cherished child.

A charming and sentimental child.

As doting parents, we shower her with love and with everything that our little girl needs.

Probably with more than she needs.

And the dusty old doll that Delilah found at a car boot sale a few weeks back, is definitely something that she didn't need.

It was so old and so worn, Vince didn't even want our sweet and clean little girl to pick the grubby doll up, at least not until he had a chance to disinfect it beforehand. Smiling now, I funnily remember how father and tiny daughter grappled over that tatty doll. How my thirty four year old husband tried to negotiate with our determined three year old daughter, trying to persuade her to choose any other toy but that one. But Delilah refused. Refused, with adorable tears in her pale hazel eyes.

Those teetering tears on her innocent little lashes, meant that there was no way that either myself or Vince, could ever say no to our strong-willed little princess.

Even the man selling the doll, seemed temporarily touched by how this ugly, scruffy old thing could captivate Delilah over all of the other toys that he was selling at the car boot sale. So touched in fact was he, he quickly gave the doll to Delilah and said that we owed him nothing for it.

So that ugly, scruffy old doll came home with us on that sunny Sunday afternoon. And that ugly, scruffy old doll and Delilah have become inseparable.

So inseparable, I flit between it being thought of as sweet and cute, to wondering whether I should actually be worried or not.

Delilah calls the doll Dale, even though the doll is supposed to be female. But then again, we've got two female Guinea Pigs called Ant and Dec, so that itself doesn't overly worry me.

Dale is now as clean as we could possibly get her. But she still has stains all over her plastic face and limbs, and her hair is now a cleaner mass of plastic-coated fuzz. But we are still not allowed to call Dale a she. If we do, Delilah always cutely pouts back at us, with her arms crossly folded up by her tiny little chest, saying. "He doesn't like that when you call him a she. He doesn't like it at all."

Of course, we both laugh it off. Like amused parents do. But there's still a part of me that wonders whether the attachment that Delilah has to her doll is normal or not.

When she has a bath, so does Dale.

When she eats, Dale also has to have a plate.

If we go anywhere, Dale has to come.

At nursery, Dale has to go with her.

Bedtime, Dale has to be tucked up safely beside her.

There are no moments in the day or the night anymore, when Delilah doesn't have Dale with her.

Pulling off my washing up gloves, I hurry over to where Delilah is with Dale and her other toys. "Come on, sweetpea...we're going to be late." Gently ushering her towards the hallway, I then reach for her lightweight jacket.

"I don't need my coat, Mummy." Delilah tells me.

Smiling down at her, I proceed to put it on. "We might have a little rain today, best to take it with you to nursery...just in case."

Frowning up at me, in that adorable way that Delilah does, she confidently then replies back with. "It's not going to rain, Mummy." Then she tries pulling out one of her arms from the jacket.

Sounding sterner now, I try putting her arm straight back into it. "Put your jacket on, Delilah."

Pouting AND frowning, she sulkily does as she's told. "It's not going to rain today." Is her angry reply back.

"Why are you so sure?" I jestingly ask, turning Delilah so she can now see my motherly smile upon my face.

Delilah gloriously smiles. "Dale told me."

With affection, I stroke the tip of her immensely cute nose. "Well, sweetpea, Dale is a doll, and dolls aren't that great about knowing the weather."

As confident as can be, Delilah's answer comes out real quick. "Dale knows everything, Mummy."

"Does she now?" I teasingly ask.

Scolding me with her young stare, Delilah doesn't look happy. "Dale is a heeeeeeeeeee! He gets angry with you, Mummy, when you keep calling him a sheeeeeeeeeee!"

Playing along with my feisty three year old, I look down at Dale, who is now tightly being held by Delilah. "I'm sorry, Dale...it won't happen again." To appease my little princess, I gently pat the doll on its scruffy head following my playful apology.

Sighing softly and still not looking all too pleased with me, Delilah waits for me to open the front door so I can finally take her to nursery. "He knows that you don't mean that, Mummy." Opening the door for her, Delilah then happily skips out towards our car.

As I am fastening Delilah securely into her car seat, she suddenly places her tiny little hand onto mine. "What does third time lucky mean, Mummy?" Her hazel eyes are wide with needing to know the answer to the question that she's just asked me.

A little taken aback, I smile with a confused frown. "Um, I'm not sure what you mean...why do you ask, sweetpea?"

With no smile, Delilah's reply comes back to me with no hesitation whatsoever. "I'm your third baby, Mummy. There were two more before me who couldn't be with you and daddy."

I think the colour from my face must have all drained out.

Shaken.

Floored.

And unexpectedly a little heartbroken.

I truly don't know how to correctly respond to my little girl.

"How...how do you know that, sweetpea?" My eyes meet with Delilah's, wanting the innocent and unknowing her to tell me how she could possibly know such a thing.

Cuddling her doll ever tighter against herself, my darling daughter answers with soft yet chilling clarity. "Dale told me, Mummy...and heeeeeeeee knows everything."