The Gift That Keeps on Giving

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When I was five or six years old I received a box of wood for Christmas.   The disappointment I felt when opening that gift was almost equal to, but not nearly the same, as the disappointment I felt the year Santa brought me a box of material (later to be made into a dress by my grandma).   It turned out that the wood was a make-it-yourself doll-house kit and it became something much grander then just slats of wood which lasted a lifetime (the dress might have lasted a year).  The money to purchase the kit originally came from my Grandpa but the people who spent the most time working on the dollhouse through the years were my Grandma, Mom and Pop, and sometimes me.  For someone who seems to have kept everything, I cannot find any photos from those early days of building the dollhouse.   But I have many memories of the process, so we must have worked on it quite a lot.

This dollhouse was a classic and it had everything.  Three floors, 4 bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen and a main dining/living room.  First, my mom and dad worked together to build it, and I played with it in its raw un-painted state for a few years.  Then, my Grandma got involved and took it to the next level over the next many years.  Once we painted it, the house was blue, the roof a darker blue and the balconies and windows were all white.  I recall picking out these colors.  Through the years my grandmother helped to decorate it by making a lot of the bedding and curtains.  Once the house was built I remember working with Grandma and Mom to put up wallpaper and install carpet.  Every single holiday following the box of wood, I received dollhouse accessories.  Furniture, food, people –    It was literally a showpiece, and in the house that I lived in from ages 8 to 20, it was on display in the front room.  People might recall the blue house that sat to the left of the TV if they ever visited.  Unfortunately, by the time it was fully complete and decorated, I was getting too old to really be into dollhouses.  I appreciated the novelty and uniqueness of it, and I enjoyed decorating it each Christmas time with it’s own miniature version of a Christmas tree, lights and wreaths, but I wasn’t at an age where I would spend any length of time making up imaginary tales for the family that lived there. And yet still, we held onto it. 

When my mom sold my childhood home, she took the dollhouse with her and it remained in storage at her house for years.  We would talk about it occasionally all those years I was single... “what do you want to do with it?”  “I don’t know, but I’m not ready to get rid of it.”  We talked about it when I got married (and kids were a vague distant thought).  “what do you want to do with it?” “I don’t know, but I’m not ready to get rid of it.”  Then my son was born.  “What do you want to do with it?”  “I don’t know.. let’s see if Jingle might like it later….”.    And then two things happened 1) We bought a house that had storage, and 2) we had a daughter.  I’m not sure which one my mom may have been more excited about – the fact that she was having a granddaughter, or the fact that she could finally unload this dollhouse on me.

And, for the last three years, it sat in a closet downstairs.  Miraculously never found by either of my children.   The box of furniture and accessories was stored under the house.  I hadn’t looked in that box, nor studied the dollhouse since I was around 20 and my childhood home was sold.

Then, last week, for my daughter’s third birthday, we decided to clean it up, pull out all the furniture, and give it to her.  I had spent weeks cleaning up the downstairs in order to turn it into a playroom so that there was space to hold such a large piece.  My mom came over on Savvy’s birthday (while she was out of the house) and spent hours cleaning and decorating the dollhouse with everything.  It was a true walk down memory lane seeing all of these miniature pieces that I hadn’t seen in twenty years.   I had temporarily forgotten all of the love, attention and detail that had gone into the house.   The people were still dressed in their 70’s clothing.  The furniture in the front room looks like it was literally shrunk down from the furniture we used to have in our cabin in the late 70s, early 80s.   There is a sewing machine and a rotary phone.  There are bunk-beds, a crib, and even a tiny Monopoly board.  I decided that rather than place all of those tiny accessories into the house it would be fun to let my son do it, so that he could feel a part of the gift too.

When our kids got home that day, we called them downstairs for their surprise.   They were so happy to see the dollhouse.  My son even registered the fact that it used to belong to me.  They know it’s special.  They have also already broken some items, but I can’t let myself be concerned about it.   Because, after 35 years, since receiving a box of wood one Christmas, the dollhouse is actually being played with, as it was intended.    The look of happiness on the kids’ faces that day was only out-measured by the look of love and pride on my mom’s face when she saw their reaction to it.  And, we both couldn’t help but think of my Grandma who made the house a home.

The dollhouse master and her onlooking admirers