Bozzie
Mon., September 22, 10:14 AM
We’re in the home stretch now — at least my daughter-in-law is. My original guess was for another two weeks, but maybe not that long. Anyway, you’ll excuse me if I’m thinking about babies. But let me tell you about Bozzie.
Bozzie was an unsellable life-sized baby doll that my mother picked up at Bloomingdale’s. She might have been a rather expensive doll at one time (it was Bloomie’s, after all), but having been used for display purposes, she was somewhat faded from being in the window. She also had some spots on her head where someone had been splashing paint — “terminal dandruff,” said my sister.
My mother gave it to us when I was expecting my second child, not just as a toy for U.D. but also so she could get to see Mommy holding a baby. U.D. wasn’t walking on her own yet, but she would pull herself up by the box we were using as a “bassinette” for the doll and look inside. She was the one who named it Bozzie. Nevertheless, the first time I showed her the real baby, she responded, “kitty cat.”
Because I remembered my mother giving me a similar opportunity, I did let U.D. “hold the new baby.” That is, I sat her in the corner of the sofa, where the arm would help support the baby, and put her into U.D.’s lap. “Ride in the car, baby?” asked U.D. “Crackers in the pocketbook?” Her version of Welcome to my world, I guess.
M.D. played with Bozzie too, but since she was never an only child, there was less worry about sharing Mommy with another baby. Both girls played with the doll as if it were indeed a baby, but my son occasionally dragged it around like an extra playmate. Around that time Bozzie, who had been a girl from the beginning, became “he.”
I would not be surprised if I were cleaning in the basement and actually found Bozzie, but I haven’t seen the doll in years. The last time I remember seeing it was at a Purim celebration when my son was about five years old.
Purim is a boisterously joyful Jewish holiday for which the children dress up in costumes. I put my son in his yellow slicker with his fireman’s hat, bundled Bozzie in a receiving blanket and handed the “baby” to the kid. It made sense to him; we were all fans of “Emergency!” When he walked in, at first some people thought he was carrying a real baby.
Son won a prize for best costume, and Mother kvelled.
Kvell is a Yiddish word that describes how a parent feels when her pride and joy makes her proud. One of my cousins said she never really understood the word until she had kids. It comes from German word, Quelle, meaning “source,” like the place where a spring bubbles up from underground. (That probably explains why all that water appears in my eyes…)
