Last week Mom and Dad brought home a baby doll. This doll is different though: it is neither like the stiff ones I have that have shiny hair, nor like the soft ones with raggedy hair. This baby doll moves! It makes noises!

I thought the baby doll was going to be a toy for me, a gift for my 3rd birthday, but it isn’t.  I have barely gotten a chance to touch the baby doll that moves.

Mom and Dad named the doll Javier, which I think is a very odd name. Who calls a baby doll Javier? I would have called it Vanessa, Sabrina or Helen.

Today, Mom is dressed in a light blue lace dress; her hair is coiffed into shiny brown curls and she has red paint on her lips. We are at my grandmother’s house, the one above the store that sells electrical tape in every color of the rainbow. There are so many people in the house, but I only know Mom and Dad and Abuela and Tia.

“The Mohel is here,” Dad says to Mom and he brings a man with long black hair growing from his face.  I want to touch the man's black hair growing from his face because I never seen anyone like that, but Mom pulls me away as she holds the baby doll in her other arm.

Mom puts the baby doll on the changing table. I hold on to Mom’s skirt. I feel safe holding onto Mom’s skirt.  Mom takes the baby doll’s clothes off to change the white cloth. She has been doing this seven times a day since last week. I usually only change my baby doll once a day, twice at most, if it is a boring day.

I notice that the man with the hair growing out of his face is wearing a hat that is too small for his own head. He approaches us.

“How is the boy doing today?” the man asks Mom.

“He’s fine. I’ll finish changing him and bring him over,” she says, and I look up at the way her hands move, fast and steady, folding this side of the white cloth, then the other. 

I am mesmerized by Mom's hands until I feel rain on my face. But it is a sunny spring day outside. I look up and around and the rain is only on me.  The drops grow into a stream that goes into my eyes and mouth and soak my yellow dress. I tug at Mom’s skirt because she helps me when weird things happen, and having rain falling only on you is a weird thing happening.

“Ay, Dios Mio,” says Mom, and she hurries to take a small towel to cover the baby doll’s hose. This doll is fun, I think to myself. My other doll’s never make rain happen just for me. Not even on a super boring day.

Mom cleans the wetness. She’s rough on it. She’s on a mission to eradicate every rain drop that fell from the doll on to me.

“No empiezes a llorar,” Don’t start crying, Mom says to me.

And I don't. But, why would I cry? This baby doll makes rain fall just for me.