After dinner yesterday, Rosebud pulled out her dolls. She has very few of these and all are markedly bald. Not from being victimized by Toddler Scissorhands, you understand. Just bald. Fresh out of the package cue-balls.

Anyway, she has three dolls. One nearly newborn size, one medium-sized thing and the third clearly representing the get of Tom Thumb.

I should note that I haven't seen this trio in some time, and never as a package deal. However, once she had them out, it was time to feed them bottles, change them and burp them (With Real! Live! Mama-generated sound effects).

I sat there, happily playing doll-babies with Rosebud, when I suddenly realized we were bottle-feeding these lumps of plastic.

As though cued, the whispy soul of a deceased boob-crew member descended into my soul and took charge of me.

"You know," says she, through my voice, "this isn't the only way to feed babies."

And then, to my horror, she proceeded to give an anatomically specific explanation about breastfeeding. There were nearly charts and diagrams, but I was able to hoist us away from the conveniently located chalkboard.

Honestly, how could this person be . . . PROGRAMMING . . . my not-quite-three-year-old child? How dare they? I stared down in distaste at the medium-sized kewpie thing pressed up against my bosom in some kind of macabre mockery of feeding, wondering how I'd ended up channeling Kellymom without my knowledge.

As hastily as I could, I re-claimed my soul and the toy bottle (Simulates Real Drinking!) with it's toy formula, and carried on with the mindless play, hoping my child hadn't noticed I'd lost mastery over my own body for a moment there.

Now that this horrid body snatching experience is over with, I have this to say: whoever you were, granola-crunchy mama-soul with an agenda, paws off. She'll sort that stuff out later. At least give me until puberty (hers and Juniper's, not mine. Just sayin') to work it out, mmmmkay?

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