Kids and Dolls

I often find it sweet and cute and adorable and heartening when Elisabeth or Charlotte play with their dolls.  Elisabeth tucks hers into bed at night.  She makes me sing to them and kiss them good night.  She prepares meals for them in her play kitchen.  I'm pretty sure she treats them better than we treat her.

Charlotte hauls hers around and pretends to feed her.  She hugs her.  She cuddles her and makes her feel better.  

So very sweet.  Until... it isn't.  Charlotte this morning was all cuddles with her doll.  She was pat-patting her and kissing her and squeezing her tight.  And then in the next second she was flinging her onto the floor by her hair and running off to do something else.

Elisabeth decided she wanted to take the dolls to Nana and PopPop's house for Easter.  So she took her dolls - the same dolls that I have to treat as though they are my own children - and shoved them with great force into a rolly suitcase that looks like a tiger, that is approximately half the volume required for three dolls.   I swear she was actually stomping on them to squish them in.  

I hope that isn't an indication of future behavior, say when a parent gets too old to have a say...