Paper Dolls

"It's not enough to love the children; it is necessary that they are aware that they are loved." --St. John Bosco

My most cherished childhood toys were an orange and brown stuffed puppy my Nana (my father's mom) bought for me when I was born and paper dolls I made with my Great Aunt Eva when she would come for a visit. When my Grandma Juanita (my mother's mom) was angry with me, one of her favorite tactics was to take away something special she'd given me as a punishment. I kept my puppy hidden when he wasn't with me, and with the paper dolls, if she harmed them, I could just make more. I quickly learned not to get attached to most things, otherwise she would have more power over me and that was potentially disastrous.

Aunt Eva, Grandma Juanita's youngest sister, used to come over to our house every Friday for an all-day visit with her sisters. This was my favorite time of the week, especially in the summer when I didn't have to go to school, because she spent most of the day playing with me while spending time with her sisters. Even when she was working in our very large garden, she would take me with her and make it an adventure. On rainy days, we'd sit at the kitchen table and she'd let me play with cookie dough while she baked cookies. She also cut out paper dolls for me and helped me create little shoebox houses where they could live. I would painstakingly color in eyes, hair, clothing and then I'd carefully tape the paper furniture she made inside the shoebox houses and play with them for hours. The beauty of our paper world--when it got destroyed, creating it anew was easy. In the winter, we also made paper snowflakes. Her cutting skills were far superior to mine; moreover, she got to use sharp scissors, which I wasn't allowed to touch! When she was done making her snowflakes, however, she always gave them to me so I was somewhat mollified, even though I swore to myself that someday my snowflakes would be just as fabulous as hers. By the time I had my own daughters, my snowflakes almost rivaled hers.

I learned from Grandma Juanita just how harmful it could be to become attached to things. From Aunt Eva, I learned that simple things are usually the most fun, but the most memorable things are not material, such as a beloved family member who always made time for a broken, mixed-up little girl. This lesson was punctuated the year I was ten. I composed the final letter to Santa I would ever write. I don't remember what was on my wish list, only that I got everything I'd asked for. As I sat on the living room floor surrounded by my new toys, I plastered a smile on my face to hide my sadness, but inside my heart was devoid of the enchantment a child ought to experience on Christmas morning. I wanted my parents. I wanted what my ten-year-old mind thought a normal family ought to be. Not one toy on the floor made me even marginally happy.

I spent my entire adult life working towards making that childhood "wish" come true. I have a lovely home full of things, but what I truly cherish are the memories attached to almost every one of them--magnets on my fridge from family vacations we've taken with our girls, tin boxes that belonged to my mother and used to be in her kitchen, a "tick-tock" clock my father gave me one year for Christmas, a bone china teapot with delicate pink roses on it that Aunt Mattie brought me back from her trip to Europe, a painting of a vase of flowers that was created for my late mother-in-law by a talented artist and neighbor of hers, a wooden bowl with a carving of an exquisite tree that my oldest daughter gave me, etc. All of these things are triggers to all that I truly value, the people in my life, past and present, who remind me just how blessed I am.

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