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Over the next few days, Jack and Baby Vicky were inseparable. He fed her, gave her medicine, changed her whether she needed it or not. He rocked her on his lap. He dragged her by the foot everywhere he went.

At night, he brought her into his crib, covering her with a blanket, making sure her bottle was nearby. What the hell did Toys 'R' Us know? My son's nurturing qualities had emerged without any suggestions on my part. I was so moved, I thought my heart would melt.

My husband was also moved, but in a different way.

"Is it normal for him to play with a doll?" David asked, his voice breaking with the merest hint of homophobia. "What happened to trucks?"

I assured David that the other boys in Jack's social set also played with dolls. I just didn't mention they did so only as a last resort. For whatever reason, the little guys I'd observed were much more attached to their cars and bikes, while our son clearly preferred Baby Vicky.

When I described Jack's activities with Baby Vicky over the phone to my mother-in-law, there was a loud pause.

"What are you trying to tell me?" she finally asked.

"Just that he likes his doll," I said innocently.

The truth was, I was gloating. I loved the fact that my Sensitive Boy had scored a TKO against the leading contender. Like David smearing Goliath, Jack had shown Macho who was boss. It was a beautiful thing to see.

It just didn't last long.

Being a girly-woman with pitifully limited mechanical skills, I had failed to set Baby Vicky's internal clock correctly. Consequently, she became nocturnal, waking us all for 2 a.m. feedings with her sobs. On more than one occasion, I had to run into Jack's room, yank Baby Vicky from the crib, check her heart-shaped screen for a diagnosis, and give her whatever she needed so she'd shut up.

Sometimes she only needed a 4 a.m. hug and I'd have to squeeze her tiny computerized hands till she giggled and said: "I love you, Mommy." But sometimes she'd groan, "Mommy, I'm sick," punctuated by something that sounded an awful lot like a dry heave. I'd feel that familiar lurch in my stomach, the lurch every mother has when her child is ill. So I'd gently place the medicine dropper in Vicky's mouth until she stopped crying and a genuine wave of relief washed over me, knowing I'd made my "child's" hurt go away.

Even when Jack's nanny fixed Baby Vicky's clock so her yelps for attention were confined to daylight hours, I found myself searching the house for the howling baby doll. But as I took more interest in Baby Vicky, Jack took less. One night after I'd tucked them both in, I heard an ominous clunk. I hurried back into Jack's room.

Baby Vicky lay sprawled face down on the hardwood floor. I looked at my son; he flashed me a smug smile.

Once I found myself arguing with Jack over Baby Vicky.

"She's hungry," I said, pointing to the bottle icon on her heart-shaped diagnosis screen. "Don't you want to feed the baby?"

"No!" he shouted.

"May I feed the baby?" I asked, holding the bottle to Baby Vicky's lips.

"No!!" he screamed, grabbing the bottle and hurling it across the room like Nolan Ryan. Then he wrested Baby Vicky from my grasp and tossed her onto a pile of Legos where she wailed pitifully.

"Jack? Don't you want to -- ?"

"Mommy, no Baby Vicky! Mommy, no Baby Vicky!"

Apparently, the only thing as strong as the maternal instinct is sibling rivalry.

Now the little black knob on Baby Vicky's back is set to the "off" position. Because she's perpetually mute, I have no cause to wonder whether she's hungry or sick. Usually she can be found on the floor with the other toys Jack plays with in five-minute bursts before his attention span wanes and he moves on to his toolbox and fire truck.

The other day I watched out the window as David and Jack "played" football.

Resting on a lawn chair in the shade, David tossed the football across the lawn. Jack ran as fast as his chubby legs would carry him, his little arms pumping the air. He fetched the ball and proudly handed it back to David.

"Daddy throw foo-ball, Daddy throw foo-ball!"

I smiled as my tiny angel went long to retrieve another pass. Who knows? Someday this boy actually might get me to a football game.
salon.com | Dec. 14, 1999

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