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Illustration by Joy Kim
“What are you playing, Cait?”
I stood, laundry basket on my hip, at the door of Caitlin’s bedroom. She was alone, arranging plastic people in her dollhouse.
“I’m playing how it feels to have a mommy and daddy in the same house.”
I put the basket on her bed and sat on the floor beside her, in the corner of her bedroom, sunlight streaming in on us.
I had saved for months to buy the dollhouse, to surprise Caitlin for her fifth birthday. The youngest of my four daughters, I wanted something special, just for her: not the hand-me-down snowsuits; not the bikes her sisters had outgrown; not the dog-chewed Lego.
Her dad had left seven months before, a week before Caitlin started kindergarten. I had read that such a loss is hardest on a child this age, or the age of her next oldest sister, who was six. But then I observed how hard it was on the eldest, a teenager, and on the middle child, in her last year of elementary school. There was no hierarchy on hurt, I decided. Perhaps the dollhouse could help at least one of my children.
The dollhouse is a three-storey Victorian wonder, complete with a turret. Its pink brick is the predominant colour, offset by white shingles in the shape of seashells. Hearts adorn the front door. Gingerbread embellishes the eaves.
In the dollhouse lived a family: brunette father, blonde mother, brunette boy child, blonde baby girl. The baby had her own nursery, complete with cradle, change table and stroller. There was a mini dollhouse, an exact replica of the larger dollhouse, so toys could play with toys, I assumed. There was a playground with slides. Batteries operated the lights, giving a warm evening glow, and Brahms’s Lullaby played in the nursery. In the dollhouse, everything was perfect.
I sat with my daughter while she played, both of us processing our life as we knew it at that moment.
Over the years, some of the dollhouse people and furniture disappeared. New additions arrived, thanks to yard sales and fast-food kids’ meals. The family broadened. People of colour joined the family. Dads raised their children together. Beauty and the Beast stayed for a while. They left their candelabra behind. I find the red-headed troll confusing and the headless mom terrifying, but I never question who joins the family. Some beds are too big for the bedroom; some chairs are too small for the people. I gave up replacing batteries; Brahms no longer plays in the nursery. The family doesn’t care. It thrives. All are welcome in the dollhouse.
Eventually, Caitlin outgrew the dollhouse. I moved it to the basement, where soon a second generation played with it.
Just like the dollhouse, our family grew in numbers and diversity; some family members have been lost; others have joined. Children left home. I remarried.
When my husband, Craig, and I downsized from the large family home my girls had grown up in and moved into a smaller home, I brought only the most precious or necessary of my belongings. The dollhouse made the journey. One of my friends questioned my judgment, but even with minimal storage space, I made room for the dollhouse.
Every child who comes to our home asks to play with the dollhouse. I imagine the dollhouse broadening its white plastic struts with pride, as it is brought out for play. My six-year-old great-grandson, Miguel, prefers it to any other toy in the house, except perhaps a soccer ball. I’ve noticed his action figures like to visit. Craig’s granddaughter, Eliane, pleads with me for the dollhouse. When I tell her it is too nice a day to play inside, she says she will take it outside. While others swim and boat, she sits on the deck with the dollhouse, absorbed in her world.
Just as I watched Caitlin so long ago, I watch how these children move the furniture about, how the plastic people interact with each other and I learn so much.
I intervene rarely and then only to ensure no harm comes to a resident of the dollhouse or to offer some grandmotherly wisdom. There is no room for hate in the dollhouse; lots of room for kindness and inclusion.
The dollhouse’s stories have gone international and have become family legend. I learned from my granddaughter, Phoebe, from England that her dad told her the burn mark in the turret was caused by him using it as a candle holder when he and her mom lived with us years before Phoebe was born.
The dollhouse has been a part of our family for 30 years. In a quick internet search, I learned it is a collector’s item and considered “vintage.” It would garner a good price, even more with the original furniture, some of which we have. But the dollhouse is never leaving us. It has fostered the imaginations of three generations. Just like us, the dollhouse and its family have adapted to the times and been the better for it.
Today, when I watch Caitlin, her husband, Jason, and their son, Ben, throw a football together; when I overhear the jokes they share; when I feel the warmth of their family hugs, I know Caitlin has the answer to the question she searched for 30 years ago. She knows how it feels to have a mommy and daddy in the same house.
Diane Gorman lives in Manotick, Ont.