The time had come.
I delayed the inevitable as long as I could. But as I looked around my then-11-year-old daughter’s room, I was faced with a crushing reality. It’s childish contents were no longer a reflection of the emerging woman who was occupying its princess pink walls.
From the time we bought her first Fisher Price dollhouse at age two, Molly was completely mezmerized. Over the years, her room’s perimeter had become lined with an elaborate labyrinth of dollhouses of varying shapes and sizes. Scraps of fabric, empty Kleenex boxes and old candy wrappers were among the unlikely treasures that she collected and repurposed into dollhouse decor.
Each miniature doll had a name and a carefully developed personality, including a ‘Mom’ who often possessed superhuman capabilities. “She has 13 children,” Molly would say. “She’s the school principal and a fashion designer.” And she pays the mortgage to Barbie’s Dream House to boot? No pressure there.
It was a sweet and innocent time. And I didn’t want it to end. Yet, on a Saturday afternoon, I accepted reality. And I found myself, side-by-side with my daughter, slowly disassembling her childhood. Together, we giggled as we made unexpected discoveries of lost Polly Pocket clothes, funny drawings, old diaries and a pair of much-loved sequined princess slippers that had long ago lost their regal luster.
At the same time, I was filled with an overwhelming wave of sadness and regret. Cries of “Play with me!” echoed in my mind. I cringed as I considered how many times I didn’t. Consumed with daily demands and exhaustion, I always thought there would be time — later.
Later comes sooner than we think — and without warning.
