It’s Worth More That Way

In my first mother-inlaw’s home, a woman I am no longer tethered to by marriage but still refer to as Mom on the phone, there’s an odd room. To some, it’s out and out terrifying. To others, it’s wasted space as there are so many other things one could do with a large bedroom just off a foyer. To me, however, it was always magical. It is, simply, a room full of dolls. There are porcelain collectible dolls, the kind dressed like fine Victorian ladies with details so intricate they look as if they’re about to develop headaches and loft themselves across fainting couches. There are baby dolls with soft bodies that actually weigh 7 lbs. These are so realistic you cannot hold one without feeling your heartbreak just a little bit, aka, the cry of the phantom ovary, for those of us who are a certain age. There are actual antique dolls, so precious they are behind glass cabinets. There are rag dolls. There are entire collections of Madame Alexander lines. There are the 80s Cabbage Patch Kids. There are a few marionettes that look uncannily like ventriloquist dummies. And, finally, there are the offerings by Mattel. All the Holiday Barbies are front andcenter, as are the movie star Barbies, the Barbies from distant lands, and even the Disney varieties. And, interestingly, they are all in their boxes. Yep, every single Barbie is still in her original box. In fact, I remember a Christmas spent in this very home – several, actually. On this particular day, 9 siblings gathered with their spouses while 37ish grandchildren opened gifts in the floor. The moms hovered frantically, trying to grab the wrapping paper mid-tear as the opening frenzy ensued. My daughter, Chynna, then around 7, was down to her last gift. As she popped off the bow and ripped through the paper, her eyes lit up like a sky full of stars. She was the chosen one. Her grandmother had gifted her with the Czechoslovakian Barbie. Unlike the other gifts that season, this one came with a single rule, simultaneously repeated by every mother in that room. “Don’t open the box.” See, it’s worth more that way.

FaceTime is a beautiful thing, especially when you’re a grandmother yourself, often pouting worse that any grandchild over all the miles that have settled in between us. There was another Chynna sitting in a living room floor opening a different gift on an unrelated occasion. My granddaughter was opening her birthday presents and, by the magic of a cell phone, we were sort of there, too. She’s a big seven-year-old who loved her cross-body purse with the tassel. She squealed with delight over the blue blocker glassesin a pink to turquoise ombre color. She absolutely flipped out when she spied the collection of rings. Her LEGO loving heart sang over the Star Wars Imperial Fighting something or other, and the binoculars her Papaw sent her almost made her cry. The child loves binoculars. But, the best gift of all, the one her uncle - my oldest son - sent her, the one she could not wait to bring on screen for us to see, was some Star Wars character I do notknow. She knew, however. I sat back and listened to her tell me all about this still boxed action figure and all the things he did in the movie and all the ways he was the best character. “I can’t wait to play with him, Didi.” I have recently discovered that 7 is my favorite age. Yes, 6 had been my favorite, and I am sure that 8 will be my new favorite one day soon. But, 7, when they become so very conversational andremember things like that they were supposed to call you on a certain day to tell you how a certain thing went, and their face is rapt with joy and you can hear nothing but promise and hope in their voice, it’s special. I often fight back tears. These are tears equally gathered from the realization that the other Chynna, big Chynna as we say, if only to keep track of our Chynnas, would’ve been a spectacular mother. These are tears from the knowledge that this won’t last forever. Soon, having a grandmother as your confidant will seem passe. These are tears of sheer happiness, as no amount of foretelling can prepare you for the absolute giddiness of being someone’s grandmother. And, as all of these things were happening, the talking and the opening and the showcasing, I heard my son’s voice in the background. “You know, Chynna, you could just leave this action figure in the box. It would be worth more that way.” I thought the guttural scream coming from my person was all in my head until my son’s face appeared on the phone, his one eyebrow raised as if to say, “WTH, Mom?” “Sorry,” I said. “But, you HAVE to let her open that. Promise me you’re going to let her open that.” He asked why. I said it. “There’s a Czechoslovakian Barbie in the attic, still in a box. More than anything, I wish I’d let your sister open the darn thing.” We grandmothers get emotional sometimes. Just play with the toys. The memories are worth more that way.