stuff

This morning, during our mad scramble out the door, Lizzy was rooting around through the Papasan Chair o' Toys (if you've been to our house in the past few months -- both of you -- you know what I'm talking about) to find her chosen toy du jour, a hand-me-down, $5 frog from Kohl's that she has dubbed "Chocolate, the Pretend Lizard." She is among a handful of Lizzy's very prized stuffed animals. We had recently cleaned up the toys from where they had been strewn around the room, so Chocolate was near the bottom. Hence the active search.

We finally found her. As we drew her out of the pile, I heard a strange 'ping/crack' as something else fell and struck the chair next to the papasan. Something breakable, clearly. As there's only one breakable thing in that pile, it had to be ... Olivia, the porcelain doll I found among my childhood possessions when my mom mailed them to me a couple of years ago. Lizzy quickly claimed the doll as her own and named her. She, too, was prized, but I wouldn't allow Lizzy to take her out of the house. I KNEW I shouldn't have allowed Lizzy to play with her at all. Lizzy IS careful, but play is play ...

Olivia's head broke clean off of her body this morning. I'm trying not to care. Really, I am. Even before Lizzy got her mitts on the doll, she was showing signs of age -- the edges of her porcelain head piece were wearing through her vintage gown. Her bonnet was rarely found anywhere near her head. Her boots were actually on her feet, but that was the exception rather than the rule. What I feel slightly ill about is that Olivia was probably some heirloom of a grandmother's. There's probably some 80-year-old history to her, and I blew it by giving her to my (then-) two year old. I'm not going to inquire of the parents as to probable origins. I don't think they remember, anyway.

I'm not wild about the idea of dolls that aren't meant to be played with. I understand that, if one wants something preserved, one does not give it to a child. But I have no use for dolls on a shelf, or under glass. My new rule: If it's fragile, my daughter doesn't get it. And it won't be purchased by me.

My biggest problem (in this regard) is that I'm too sentimental. I'm not into 'stuff,' for stuff's sake, but I have a hard time parting with stuff that I've grown attached to. I have a hard time throwing away stuffed animals or dolls that I've ever played with. I remember people fondly, but many of these dolls and toys that I had are held in much the same esteem. That's a little disturbing to me.

I've heard the suggestion of taking photos of the things you care about -- children's drawings, for instance -- and scrapbooking them. But photos just can't capture certain things. And yet, I have only so much storage in my house, you know? Only so much tolerance for boxes of my past that I have no current, or future, use for (though I can always justify it somehow), and yet can't seem to part with.

It almost makes me wish for a house fire. (BUT NOT REALLY. FICKLE FINGER OF FATE, I'M ONLY JOKING.)

I think the problem is best solved by working on my issues, though. I'm just not sure how to. Therapeutic trashing of one's own possessions? Anyone want to join me? Maybe if we trashed EACH OTHER'S possessions, it would be easier. Gulp.

And now comes Christmas. The loot (almost all for Lizzy) under our tree is unreal. It will soon sit next to the half of the things she got for her birthday that she hasn't yet touched.

At least I asked Grandma and Grandpa Williams for a nice doll for Lizzy. A non-breakable one.
Holy crap! Maybe I doomed Olivia. Maybe our town is only big enough for one pretty doll.

RIP, Olivia. At least two generations loved you well.