Pristine is not always valuable

I had never realized what a doll could have been for my daughter.  It wasn’t until she passed it down to her own daughter that I witnessed what I had done.

When my daughter was a very young girl she received a “Madame Alexander” doll from her favorite Aunt, my sister Elizabeth.  Elizabeth doted on my daughter.  They were like two peas in a pod.  If my daughter got on the floor to play, so did my sister.  I would find them pirouetting together in the middle of the front yard.  My sister was never embarrassed to play on my daughter’s terms.  They had a level of communication I couldn’t comprehend.  I was often envious of the closeness.  My daughter drank it all in.  She lit up at the site of my sister.  I sometimes felt threatened by the attention they paid to each other.  I had admonished my sister more than once on the elaborateness and expense of her gifts to my little girl. 

Elizabeth paid very little attention to me, my sister prevailed.  My child received an absolutely beautiful doll that long ago Christmas morning.  My daughter placed the box, with a great deal of reverence, in what was considered her corner of the living room.

I felt my daughter should treasure this most precious gift.  I just knew she would want this beautiful keepsake forever.  It was so beautifully boxed.  The elegant doll seemed to be smiling out from behind the cellophane window.    There was no way I was going to let this keepsake get ruined.  After the hubbub of Christmas ended, I took the boxed doll and placed it up on a high shelf in my daughter’s room.  It stayed in pristine condition on that shelf in my daughter’s room for years.

Time passed, my sister died, my daughter married and had a daughter of her own, named Lizzie.  I often thought about the doll and finally when Lizzie turned five I knew it was time to pass it down.  I actually still had the doll in a closet and told my daughter I was certain I could find it in time for her to give it to her daughter, Lizzie.  We both agreed that it would make a great Christmas present for a little girl who loves “dollies”.  I managed to find the beautifully kept package in time to get it to my daughter.  I was so pleased that we would be able to pass this lovely treasure down to my grandchild.

Christmas came and the rush of opening packages overtook us all.  I knew my daughter would make the opening of the doll a ceremony. She was so much like my sister.  She intuitively knew what a little girl would treasure. The doll was the last package passed to Lizzie that morning.  I was watching as Lizzie opened the doll.  Her little face lit up and she looked at her mother with such awe.  She was the spitting image of my own daughter, those many years before.  She beamed, gently rubbing her fingers over the cellophane window that had protected that doll all those years.  My own daughter had done the very same thing when she opened the doll.                    

My daughter leaned over to her and explained the doll’s history.  She told her about the treasured Aunt, the excitement of opening the gift on that Christmas morning, and the wonderful feeling of seeing that beautiful doll smiling out at her behind the cellophane.  Lizzie was enraptured with the entire story.

“What did you name her, Mommy?”

My daughter was taken aback by the question. “What do you mean, Lizzie?”
The little face screwed up with consternation, “What’s her name?  She was your dolly first, so what’s her name?”

I could see my daughter was caught off guard, a rarity for my daughter.  It was not a question she anticipated.  There was a hesitation before my daughter spoke…”I didn’t get to name her.  She was so beautiful in her box that we just put her up on a shelf in my room so I could look at her.  I didn’t name her.”  I watched the play of emotion dance across my daughters’ face.  There was a shadow of something I couldn’t name, a type of yearning.    Something that made my own heart suddenly very heavy. 

Lizzie took a great deal of time pondering this information.  She clarified certain points with brief questions...”Stayed in the box...up on a shelf…alone in your room…never touched her” After much thought she solemnly asked my daughter if Aunt Elizabeth had ever loved the dolly.  “Well, I’m not sure if she loved her, but she loved me enough to give her to me.”

Lizzie, ever the thoughtful child, digested this information. You see in Lizzie’s world a name and being loved were one in the same thing.  Lizzie had always heard she was named after a much loved Aunt Elizabeth.  She knew she was loved for all sorts of reasons.  Just one of them being, she had been given a name that was so important in the family.  This is why she put such importance on names. She studied the doll, and then looked to her mother, back to the doll and then again to her mother.  Slowly, reverentially, Lizzie lifted the treasured boxed doll to my daughter.  “Mommy this was your dolly to love and you never got to love it.  I’ll wait till you’re done playing with it and then I’ll take good care of it.”  With that Lizzie quickly turned her attention to her other toys.

I turned to see my daughter quietly crying, cradling the old Madame Alexander box.  This was what she always wanted…permission to love her dolly. 

What had I done, by putting that doll on a shelf?  How many years had my daughter looked at that doll and wonder why she couldn’t play with it?  But most importantly, why did it take a five year old to point it out to me.

I learned a lot from Lizzie that day.  I learned how to apologize to my daughter for taking her dolly away.  I learned that the person who gave the doll was the real gift.    I learned that a box should always be opened and the contents examined. 

So as you age and become more used looking, remember pristine is not always valuable.