Today's post is another, never published before, memory story about the year I wanted a big baby doll and my mother said...well, read the story to find out what happened. What Christmas stands out in your memory? Write about it. Soon!
A Wish, An Angel, and A Big Baby Doll
My bottom lip quivered when my mother laughed and said,
“You’re too old for baby dolls.”
I didn’t think twelve was too old to play with dolls. My
cousin, Carole, had the most wonderful baby doll, one the size of an actual
infant. She wore real baby clothes. I coveted that doll more than anything I’d
seen in my entire life. The one time of the year we got new toys was Christmas,
so this was the perfect time to ask for one.
I took a deep breath. “Carole has one, so why shouldn’t I?”
This time my mother
didn’t laugh at me. She stopped rolling the pie crust dough. “Girls who are
twelve and in sixth grade don’t play with dolls. Carole’s only eleven and in
the fifth grade.” She started rolling the dough again.
Why did a year make such a difference? I only had one doll,
a Shirley Temple look-alike given to me six years earlier. At twelve, I had
perfected sulking, and so I proceeded to do so. I watched while my two younger
brothers turned the pages in the Sears catalog writing their initials next to
the toys they wanted. The catalog filled quickly with the letters H and P. It
probably wasn’t worth putting any N’s there. I only wanted one thing, and it
looked like I wasn’t going to get it.
Even so, I harbored a twinge of hope all through the weeks
that led up to the big day. We lived in a small apartment with little storage
space, so my mother wrapped the gifts she purchased immediately and stacked
them on the dressers in the bedroom where she and Dad slept. She delighted in
sending us in there on made-up errands so we could watch the piles grow. I didn’t see a box that might hold a
life-size baby doll. Maybe tomorrow…
Signs of Christmas were all around us. We listened to an
episode of the The Cinnamon Bear on the radio every day after
school. The same story about two children and a stuffed bear searching for a
special star ran every year in December, and despite knowing the ending, I
listened every afternoon after school while I snacked on the latest Christmas
cookies that appeared daily, washing them down with cold milk. But I thought
about the big baby doll.
Mom baked many kinds of cookies, storing them in gaily
patterned tins. I helped frost the sugar cookies and sampled the others that
came out of the oven as soon as they cooled. Tiny rolled-up rugelach,
powdered-sugar-coated crescents, and of course, chocolate chip. Cinnamon rolls, coffee cakes, and frosted
layer cakes made our holiday special. We had fudge every Christmas—so soft and
gooey, it had to be eaten with a spoon. While the spicy smells of the holiday
filled the air, I thought about the doll.
A few days before Christmas, Dad put up the tree and strung
the colored lights. Next, we three kids hung the ornaments. Being oldest, I was
in charge of the upper branches. Howard worked on the next tier, and Paul, who
was only four, put ornaments on the
bottom branches. We finished with silver tinsel that
shimmered in the Christmas tree lights. Christmas music played on our big
console radio in the living room. If I got my doll Christmas morning, it would
be a perfect holiday.
A special angel adorned every tree of my growing-up years.
Mom pressed the angel’s pink satin dress, smoothed out her gold wings, and
fluffed up her hair so she was ready to stand on top of our tree, watching over
us. Dad waited until we decorated the entire tree, then he put the angel on the
highest point. That year—1951-- I wondered if angels could grant special
Christmas wishes. Just in case, I silently told her mine. She didn’t laugh or
scold, just smiled sweetly while I inhaled the special aroma of the fir tree.
On Christmas Eve, we kids brought one of our everyday socks
to the living room and Mom pinned them onto the back of an overstuffed chair
since we had no fireplace with a mantel. We knew Santa would fill them with an
orange, walnuts still in the shells and a few pieces of candy. Before we went
to bed, Howard, Paul and I brought out all the colorful packages from the
bedroom and watched as Dad arranged them under the tree.
It seemed almost magical with the lights, ornaments and the
packages filled with secrets underneath, all watched over by the sweet pink
angel on the top. All too soon, we were shooed off to bed with the annual
reminder that the sooner we went to sleep, the sooner Christmas would arrive.
In the morning, my brothers found the gifts Santa brought
them next to the tree, for Santa never wrapped his gifts. The boys knew
immediately who they were from. Each of them received one of the items they’d
marked in the Sears catalog weeks earlier. No
Santa gift for me. Twelve year old girls didn’t play with
dolls and they didn’t get gifts from Santa either. I swallowed my
disappointment and settled down on the sofa waiting for Dad to pass out the
wrapped packages, one by one.
We opened many packages that held practical items like new
socks or pajamas and others that had small toys and comic books, some jewelry
for me. I noticed a good-sized box in the corner that I hadn’t seen the night
before. When we’d opened all the others, Dad handed me the big box. I looked at
him and Mom, then at the angel on the tree. Could it possibly be?
“Open it,” Dad said.
I ripped the paper off and removed the lid, and gazed down
on the face of the big baby doll I’d hoped for. I didn’t know whether to laugh
or cry or hug my parents. Instead, I lifted the doll carefully out of the box
and cradled her against me.
I looked at my mother still in her bathrobe and slippers on
this holiday morning. My bottom lip quivered once again, but I finally got the
words out. “But you said I was too old for dolls.”
“Sometimes mothers are wrong. Daddy and I decided that if it
was something you wanted so very much, you should have it. You’ve never had a
lot of dolls like some girls.”
I laid my treasure on the sofa and rushed to my mother’s
side. I hugged her and thanked her and then put my arms around my dad and
squeezed hard, whispering my thanks in his ear.
Everyone moved to the kitchen to eat breakfast, but before I
joined them, I stopped to say a silent thank you to the pink angel on the
treetop. I picked up my special Christmas gift thinking about the fun Carole
and I would have later in the day when her family joined ours for dinner.
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