My American girls in a pink plastic paradise

She was an American Girl. In need of accessories.

So helpful girls, such as our daughters, somehow convince their parents to take them to an American Girl store. We spent a fair chunk of one vacation day last week in the one at Mall of America, just steps from an indoor amusement park, no less. I'm still seeing pink.

If you're unfamiliar with American Girl, it's a line of very nice, but very pricey, dolls. Some have elaborate historic back stories, told in books sold in the one part of the store where there are no children.

Some dolls are meant to resemble your child, so you can purchase matching doll-child outfits. For my girls, it's a plastic paradise they've long yearned to visit.

My mother loved grandchildren and dolls, and also Christmas and mail order, so my kids have an embarrassment of American Girl dolls. They were allowed to take one each to the Minnesota mothership. Why? To have their hair done, of course. I never treated G.I. Joe or Luke Skywalker nearly this well.

Ella brought “Julie,” a super 1970s girl and budding feminist. She got her when she was very young, so young that Ella used an orange highlighter pen to lovingly tattoo Julie's face. On the doll's forehead are the initials 'bff," except the b is backwards.

We asked a professional doll stylist if anything could be done.

“We could send her away for a new head,” we were told.

“But she'd be a totally different doll,” Ella cried, swiftly vetoing that plan. So Julie keeps her tattooed head.

Tess brought “Kit,” a spunky, resourceful gal with plenty of 1930s Great Depression-era Moxie.

If anyone who lived through the Depression walks into this store, I hope they have pink defibrillator paddles on hand. Kit's tiny “homemade” orange crate scooter runs $32. Want to play 1934 wash day with Kit? The laundry set is $80. This is not the best setting for a lesson on the sacrifices that must be made amid hard times.

Kit's newspaper reporter set is $28. But no doll of no child of mine is going into journalism, speaking of hard times.

Julie's line of accessories is the most insidious. This sweet little $100 banana-seat bike, record player and tennis shoe roller skates are exactly how today's mothers of a certain age were accessorized back when they were little Julies. Resistance is futile.

Yes, I understand that G.I. Joe also had many, many accessories. But they were all necessary for combat and rescues and stuff. He never needed a plastic allergy free school lunch. 

We did manage to resist, for the most part. Each doll got a new outfit. Julie and Kit also went to the bistro for tea.

In one of American's pinkest restaurants, we ate cucumber finger sandwiches and turkey bites cut into stars, tiny muffins, flower-shaped melon slices and cupcakes with, you guessed it, pink frosting. Pinkies out, Daddy.

I was glad when it was time to go. But then I remembered that Tess is starting middle school in a few weeks. Her doll days are fading fast. I actually got a little verklempt. Luckily, I was in the books section, so no one noticed.