The first hint was the stroller outside my dorm. But the chaos really began when my parents saw the crib next to my bed. “I’m nesting,” I explained to them, as they stood speechless, as though what I was saying was somehow incomprehensible. My mind began to spin, scrambling for acceptance over the massive secret I have been harboring for the past two months.
I never intended to fall so deep into this pit, this torturous yet noble vocation of creativity, dedication, and empathy. But now I am trapped in this lifestyle and am a permanent member of this community. I am woven into the tapestry of this understaffed job of public service. I am a Reborn Baby Doll Etsy Seller. Although the market is slim, the low supply makes for high demand. I sit in my triple room each night, by the light of my headlamp, with my hand shaking as I painstakingly paint pores onto the silicone baby face with my micro detail paintbrush. The process is tortuous, but making Reborn Dolls is my passion.
It wasn’t until I explained to my dad that I had already made twelve hundred dollars in commission that he finally attempted to understand. “Well, can we see these little dolls?” asked my bewildered mother. I reached down into the crib to show the newest baby I have been working on: a seven-month-old named Scout who has a cleft lip and whose scalp I am almost done sewing on. My mother shrieked at the sight of my sweet creation, and I fell to my knees, begging for validation: “They’re used for grief therapy! And the elderly love them!”
“You are a disgrace to the family name,” cursed my father. “I wish I’d never signed you up for that damn elementary school painting class.” The two swiftly exited the room in a storm of rage as I wailed in a puddle of my own tears, knocking over my stand of hand-molded custom pacifiers on the way out.
