"Because I don't like the way Connie dolls look," said her mother. "They're just too...much."Frustrated but resourceful, Fanny decides to make her own Connie doll. But when she's finished, the doll doesn't look anything like Connie. When her friends silently express their disapproval, Fanny banishes the doll to a dresser drawer. She ultimately has to decide which she cares about most: the doll or her friends' approval.
Despite the heavy sounding moral, the story is charming, not too "girly" and comes across as a joyful testament to a child's creativity and ultimate good sense.
(A bonus of buying the book is that it includes a Holly Hobbie illustrated paper doll to fasten together, as well as a blank one that your child can color and make thoroughly their own.)
Like Fanny's mom in the story, I too have refused to buy my daughters certain dolls, despite their popularity, due to their being too... much. Bratz dolls, for example. Yikes! I don't much like Barbies either, for their unrealistic proportions, but mostly due to the fact that their outfits have gotten excessively slutty in the last ten years. I spent the first few years of their lives assiduously keeping Barbies away from my young daughters, even going so far as to get rid of them when they received one as a birthday present. (Barbies as a gift for a two year old? Come on, people!) But life contains a certain amount of bowing to the inevitable. As they got older of course, they started encountering Barbies at other little girls' houses, and we went to my parents home on vacation and they encountered the Barbies my mom had saved from my youth. They were over the moon and went through a few months' phase of intense Barbie love, which has thankfully ceased. (To help myself not feel too nauseated over the thought of what I was allowing, I sought out the older Barbie clothes on Ebay, buying them in bulk, repairing when necessary, throwing away the more sluttish outfits I came across. I know. I'm intense about some things.)
Likewise, I know moms of boys who vowed to never allow their boys to play with guns, but boys (especially in playing with other boys) will turn anything into guns, and at some point you have to pick your line in the sand, and some lines are more movable than others. (For me: Barbies a reluctant, teeth-gritting "yes," Bratz "no.")