The Story of a Doll.
{A} was just a toddler, barely walking, when my mother called one day a few months before Christmas. She said, “I am shopping for gifts in this catalog, and I am going to buy {A} a baby doll. Do you want the white one, or the black one?”
Those were her words.
Several things ran through my head. ‘Why would she call me, to ask me this? Is she testing me, in some way? Does she think it really matters to me, which one she gets?’
But I said none of those things. Instead, my focus turned to my own parenting. I was a first time mother, and I already had a long list of what I would and would not do, teach and would not teach, my kids, as God gave them to me. I was a confident parent from the get-go, much to the unnerving of, well, certain people. I did indeed know a whole lot about kids, how to care for babies, desirable and undesirable behavior in growing kids, and where they come from sometimes, all learned in depth through very tender ages myself, of caring for/all-but raising, children belonging other parents. But that is a whole other topic I won’t digress into. The point is, I was thinking, “My kids will be raised to never discriminate against people because of the color of their skin, among other things. It shouldn’t even be a thought. God made us all the same, and we are as equal as we are in His eyes.” But I had to answer, so I responded, “The black one is fine.”
I know what you are thinking. I think. Maybe not. But, if you are…..I suppose by ‘choosing’, I was discriminating in some way. But what I was thinking was, ‘This an an opportunity, here. {A} will undoubtedly fall right in love with this doll without hesitation or thought, and she will learn quite early on, in this early lesson in her life, that love knows no color. Or perhaps better, love knows all colors.”.
Previously, {A} never did care much for toy dolls at all, through her childhood. But for some reason she did indeed love this one, from the day she opened her Christmas gift, from Meme and Papa. It was SO soft. Stuffed with cotton and squishy. A little odd shaped, perhaps. There was a rattle inside. {A} was quickly more than partial to it.
Then came the dilemma of course. What to name her baby doll? {A}, of course, was just barely talking. I was helping her figure lots of things out, at that age. So I thought of who gave it to her. And a perfect name occurred to me, as I chuckled more than was kind, on the inside. “ How about we name her “Beatrice” ?“, I asked {A}. “Beee-tissss”, {A} repeated with her usual big smile. And so it was.
When my mother visited again, she asked {A}, as she toddled around with her new doll, what her name was. It was all I could do, not to bust out laughing, while {A} responded, “Beeee-tisss”.
The look on my mother’s face, was priceless. You see, Beatrice, was my mother’s middle name, that she has always hated. As I read my mother’s expression in that moment, I knew she was rather torn somewhere between irked, and pleased that the dolly was named after her
For me, it was just FUN to name her Beatrice, yes, in a humorously teasing sort of way. Out of love. You know. I truly had no idea, how long Beatrice would be around.
This is a scanned scrap booking page of {A} I did years and years ago, with photos just as old. Obviously before I mastered flash. Oh how hard it is to see these things now. But naturally I still treasure the photos. What I wanted to show you here, in particular though, was {A} in the bottom left photo. She is wearing her Daddy’s sweatshirt, and carrying her beloved Beatrice.
{A} carried Beatrice all around the house, and slept with her every night. Along with the nightie I used to nurse her in, that, as she grew older, she had me wear again after being washed, to make it smell like me again.
More scanned photos: When {O} came along, (with her triplet brothers of course), {A} gave her Beatrice. {O} began to sleep with her right away, too. She’s always used her as a pillow. Here they all are together (above), having a couch cuddle. I thought it was sweet that {A} passed on her beloved doll, to her baby sister.
{A} held fast to that nightie, though, which she still sleeps with today.
{O} developed her own special and deepening relationship with Beatrice, as she grew. They read together.
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She made sure Beatrice had other friends too.
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Year after year, Beatrice was still around.
And it’s really begun to show!! I just took these photos of her the other day. {O} was caught more than once as a toddler, biting/sucking on Beatrice’s nubby little clothe thumbs in bed. Soon those were amputated and sewed up.
But check out those healthy hips on her!
It almost makes me feel a kindred spirit with her.
Until I look at her sideways. How does she keep that tummy so flat?
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Most recently, a huge hole in her face, was mended. She’s Beatrice Scar Face now. There are other questionable dark marks, we won’t wonder too long about.
The wear and tear is showing everywhere, on poor Beatrice.
I am sure being washed, as much as she has been, has shown her years too.
But I think being loved, as much as she has, is the most evident.
After all she has been through, she still has a faint smile.
I think in our own ways, we should all be able to reflect how loved we have been in our lives through the many years, as well.
