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Drama Queen candidates:
The worst toys ever

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TABLE TALK

Trying to do it all? Discuss the joys and trials of single motherhood in the Mothers area of Table Talk

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R E C E N T L Y

Sleeping in
By Anne Lamott
No one tells you that the profound tiredness you feel in your child's first year of life doesn't go away with the 2 a.m. feedings
(01/07/99)

One mother's gain
By Maurine Zarlengo Christ
After adopting three children, a mom says it's love, not blood, that makes parents
(01/06/99)

My mother's daughter
By Kristina Zarlengo
A child of adoption wonders: How much is my nature a product of my nurturing?
(01/05/99)

The baby girl I gave away
By Ceil Malek
Putting up a baby for adoption was the first act of my adult life, but it took me almost 30 years to face what that decision meant for me and my daughter
(01/04/99)

Millennial family values
By Stephanie Coontz
The legislators who are piously "voting their conscience" have been consistently screwing the future for our children
(12/24/98)

ARCHIVES

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Mamafesto
By Camille Peri
Why it's time
for Mothers Who Think

The Howdy Doody voodoo doll
By Cathy Wilkinson

My children were in a state of near hysteria as the UPS truck drove off, leaving behind a big box from "Nana," their grandmother, my notoriously generous mother-in-law. She is famous in the family for indulging her grandchildren with the latest, greatest gizmos, regardless of cost or degree of appropriateness. My son, at age 4, received a dissection kit, meant for college-level lab experiments. He managed to cut the hamster's tail off before I wrestled the scalpel away. So my little darlings were beside themselves with anticipation, waiting to unwrap the fantastic forbidden toys their Nana would bestow on them. Forget Santa -- he brought stuff that was educational, safe and only for nerds.

Christmas morning, coffee cups in hand, my husband and I watched as they bee-lined it for the Nana box, ripping away the brown paper. There was a note attached, addressed to me. "Dear Cathy, I know this isn't what the kids are expecting, but it is very valuable, an antique, I am sure they will value it in time." Just then a communal shriek filled the air. Startled, I looked up to see my husband gasp in horror and my children scuttle backward away from the box, like nervous little land crabs. I stood up and peered in.

My husband said, "It's that damn Howdy Doody doll I got when I was 6 years old!" Sure enough, nestled in the green tissue paper was a red-headed, plaid suited, buck-toothed Howdy Doody ventriloquist doll. The expression on his face -- well, my first thought was, oh, that's how Pee-wee Herman looked when he was busted at the porno theater. I picked the doll up and his lower jaw promptly fell off and landed with a thump on the floor. The kids screamed and ran upstairs, arms flailing. My husband looked stricken. "I absolutely hated that thing," he said, slipping some Yukon Jack into his coffee with trembling hands. "I tried to hide it, get rid of it. For chrissakes, I even buried it, but it always ended up back in my room!" Hmmm. Why would Nana send this to the kids? But then again, why did she send me a microwave ripped out of her motor home for my birthday? Or a stuffed chicken for our anniversary?

I stared at Howdy Doody and tried to reattach his jaw. How would I explain this to the kids? I called the kids downstairs and said that Nana just wanted them to have something that was "special" to Daddy when he was a little boy. My eldest daughter said, "That doll looks like that gym teacher that was arrested for stealing goats!" I interrupted, "OK, that's enough! You don't have to ... play with it ... just don't tell Nana!" They quietly opened their other presents, disappointed that Nana sent them a spooky, weird old doll.

That evening, as I was tucking my youngest daughter into bed, she pleaded for me to get "that crazy doll out of the house." OK. I went down, scooped up Mr. Doody and his jaw, and took him out to the garage. I put him on the shelf next to old coffee cans and couldn't wait to get back in the house. That look in his eyes.

The next morning, I woke to a wailing coming from my daughter's room. I raced down the hall and flung her door open. She was clutching her blanket, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide with terror, screaming. There, on the pillow next to her, was Howdy Doody, grinning maniacally. I yelled for her brothers, both utterly heartless pranksters. They swore they had nothing to do with it. I went and woke up my husband. When I told him what had happened, he responded by pulling the sheet over his head and muttering something about "evil" and "cut his damn head off."

Once again, I was left with the chore of dealing with big, unexplained scary phenomena that assaults our family now and again. Like when the dog threw up in the dryer. I took Howdy Doody downstairs and tossed him into the fireplace and lit a fire. As I watched his happily perverse face melt away and his jaw fall off again, my little daughter held my hand and asked what her Nana would say about this. "Well sweetie," I answered, "let's let Dad take care of that one."
SALON | Jan. 11, 1999

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