I can’t remember for sure how old I was, but I’m thinking I must’ve been around eight. I think we lived in the old green house my dad grew up in, just a few miles from the paper mill. Mom was working full-time in Birmingham, and both of my sisters still lived at home.
I remember Mom being excited about something she needed to get from a co-worker for Christmas. My older sister, Jennifer, was in on the plan. I hadn’t a clue, but sensed the excitement.
Back then, we visited my maternal grandmother, who lived close by, on Christmas Eve. The whole family would gather at her house to eat dinner and open gifts. There were a lot of us little ones, and even though I didn’t believe in Santa, I found their excitement contagious. So when the last gift had been opened, all the kids were ready to go home to await Santa’s arrival.
Upon leaving my grandmother’s, we’d return home, where Santa would have already made his stop at our house since we’d leave Christmas morning to spend the day with my paternal grandparents, who lived a little over an hour away.
That particular Christmas Eve about age eight, my mother and sister were giddy. I walked inside to the living room to find the most beautiful, hand-crafted, wooden, three-story doll house I’d ever seen, complete with wallpaper, rugs, curtains, furniture and dolls. Santa had done very well. In fact, I don’t remember another single gift I received that year. But I know I spent countless hours playing make-believe with that dollhouse.
Over the years, the dollhouse survived one move after another with us. I had abandoned it to the pile of belongings we’d move from one house to another, but never used.
When our oldest daughter was born, I thought about the dollhouse. Mark and I retrieved it from my parents’ basement, gave it a fresh coat of paint, and proudly displayed it in her bedroom. Unfortunately, she nor our other two girls ever took a real interest in it. They preferred plastic, modern toys.
Last night, as we pulled into the garage, I glanced to the right, and there sat the old, abandoned dollhouse. My gaze lingered for just a moment, while I remembered that Christmas Eve. A mixture of emotions briefly flooded me just before I took a deep breath and decided not to swim in those waves just yet. Still, I woke up with that Christmas and that dollhouse on my mind. I think it represents my happiest childhood Christmas memory.
I said to someone the other day, I’m ready for Christmas to come and go. Yes, I’m tired, like most of you. The hustle and bustle of attending activities and shopping for that perfect gift is draining. But, more than that, I’m emotionally spent. As you all know, Christmas is not nearly as simple as it was when we were children. Family and finances alone make me want to crawl under a rock until the season is over!
Maybe it’s why I can’t get that Christmas and that dollhouse off my mind. I want need to feel the childlike excitement of Christmas again. I’m tired of dreading Christmas.
