I have joined another cult.

Now before anyone gets concerned, this is not actually my first cult. If we’re being honest, I’ve accidentally joined several over the years. There’s the HOA cult, the PTO cult, the homeschool cult, and the “I own chickens for emotional support but somehow spend more money on them than my actual children” cult… which, yes, is a real thing happening in real time at my real house. Those chickens have a better healthcare situation than I do. I don’t want to talk about it.

So joining another cult really wasn’t that surprising.

This time we’ve joined the American Girl Doll Cult. Or as Harper calls it, “The My Life Doll Cult.” And if anyone tells her they’re different dolls, I will politely ask them to leave my property. Harper is almost four. In her world all 18-inch dolls belong to the same magical kingdom, and that’s the hill I will die on with her because she is four and she is right about everything and I love her.

Lynnlee, however, knows the difference. And that’s where things became dangerous.

Because Lynnlee wanted a specific doll. Not just any doll, not one currently available, not one sitting on a shelf waiting patiently to be purchased. No. She wanted Summer. The Doll of the Year from 2025. The rainbow-haired legend herself. Apparently these dolls retire, because nothing says “healthy childhood hobby” like teaching children about artificial scarcity before they can drive.

Summer was no longer available through American Girl, so I tracked one down on Amazon.

Now. Amazon and I are currently in a toxic relationship, and I want to be very clear about what that means. I place an order. Amazon makes a promise. And then somewhere between their warehouse and my front door, a group of feral raccoons and goblins who have clearly never read a single customer service manual take over all decision-making. I don’t know what happens in there. I don’t think anyone does. I believe if you looked hard enough you’d find a dry erase board covered in incomprehensible diagrams, a dartboard with delivery dates on it, and one very tired raccoon in a reflective vest just doing his best.

At this point I have an active ongoing investigation because Amazon cannot successfully deliver anything to my house within the timeline they themselves created and then announced to me with full confidence. If they say tomorrow, I mentally schedule next week. If they say same day, I assume my grandchildren will receive it as an inheritance. I have made my peace with this. I have not made my peace with this.

So when I ordered the dolls, we carefully managed expectations. “Maybe they’ll come tomorrow” was said with the same energy as “maybe we’ll win the lottery” technically possible, not something you structure your life around.

Harper’s doll was canceled immediately. No explanation, no apology, no reason. Just gone. Vanished into the goblin void like it never existed. So we pivoted and ordered another one. Fine. Whatever. The cult would survive.

Then Lynnlee’s doll supposedly arrived. Except it didn’t not exactly. Part of the order showed up on the porch. Part showed up somewhere else entirely. One package had apparently been hidden in the garage, and I have a theory about why.

My front porch is currently experiencing what experts would refer to as The Fly Apocalypse. Biblical numbers of flies. Old Testament levels of flies. The kind of flies that make you wonder what you did and who you need to apologize to. I sweep them up constantly because I own PT Alpine, which is not a pesticide so much as it is divine intervention in a can. I don’t know who created it. Perhaps scientists, wizards, or a very motivated coalition of angels but it works, and every morning I march outside broom in hand sweeping up enough dead flies to fill a small but respectable cemetery.

So my working theory is that the delivery driver pulled up, looked at my porch, said “absolutely not,” and hid the package in the garage out of self-preservation. Honestly? Reasonable. I respect the instinct.

Unfortunately, when Lynnlee finally tracked down her long-awaited doll, it was the wrong one. Not Summer. Not the rainbow-haired Doll of the Year. Not even close. Instead we received Number 79 a doll from some mysterious point in history that nobody can pinpoint. They’re up to like 150 dolls now. This thing might have been manufactured during the Clinton administration. She arrived with the energy of someone who had been waiting in a warehouse for decades and was just happy to finally be somewhere.

Lynnlee’s little face fell, and I won’t pretend that didn’t get me right in the chest, because this child had earned that doll. This wasn’t an impulse purchase. Lynnlee had saved real money, helped with chores, cleaned rooms without being asked twice, and perhaps most impressively played Barbies with Harper on a near-daily basis, which I’m going to go ahead and count as community service. She did the work. She waited. And Amazon sent her a substitute like they were filling a drive-through order. “Sorry we’re out of fries, here’s a side salad.” That’s not how cult recruitment works. That’s Cults 101. You don’t send the wrong doll.

So I contacted Amazon, and after whatever negotiations take place inside their secret goblin caves…I imagine it involves a lot of sighing and one raccoon typing very slowly, they offered fifty dollars to keep the doll.

Any rational person would stop there.

We are not rational people. We are cult members now.

We used the money for accessories. A backpack. For the doll. Because apparently she needs luggage. We’re taking a trip soon, and apparently the doll cannot simply stay home and reflect quietly on her existence. No. She must travel. She needs a carrying case, vacation accessories, pajamas (matching pajamas ) and a pet so she won’t get lonely. A pet….for the doll – who belongs to a child- who already has pets. I would like someone to explain the math happening here because from where I’m standing it looks like a crime.

There is now an Amazon wish list. An entire wish list. Beds, furniture, outfits, tiny objects that somehow cost real adult money. At this point I think we’re going to need a home addition, not for people, for dolls. We’ll have the family room, the playroom, and the doll wing. I’ll put it on the calendar right after we finish the chicken coop expansion. Don’t ask.

The good news is I think this may have ended the Pet War.

The bad news is I fear we’ve simply traded one conflict for another, one that will last for years and involve miniature luggage, matching pajamas, tiny pets, and dolls that somehow require a larger wardrobe than I currently own.

Ladies and gentlemen.

The American Girl Doll Wars have begun.