The year I was five, I desperately wanted a Little Tikes dollhouse
for some reason. Why? Who the hell knows. It looks totally unexciting now, and I already had an awesome, homemade dollhouse I had no intention of abandoning, but I think the lights turned on or something.
My parents, with three kids and one salary, pretty much laughed at me when I begged for it, but this was before the world crushed my heart into a lump of cold diamond, so I still had high hopes. Hopes that were launched into the stratosphere when my parents told me one day near Christmas that I was absolutely not to go into the garage.
Now, I was an abnormally good kid; my rebellions were few or mild. And even though they refused to answer my incessant demands as to whether they were hiding a dollhouse in there, I didn't even attempt to sneak in the garage.
However, I had
to know. So a couple days later, I was alone playing in the backyard and -- to my mind, casually -- constructed a makeshift step-stool of crates and boxes up to the one window into the dark garage. Peering in while on tiptoe, I could just
make out the giant Little Tikes box.
Unfortunately, what I hadn't counted on was my mom witnessing everything from the kitchen window. She called me inside and demanded to know what I was doing. I tried to deny it, and then switched my story to admitting to, okay, trying
to look in the window, but I hadn't seen anything, really! My parents were furious with my disobedience, though, and announced that they were taking back the dollhouse immediately. I was crushed, and after that, the garage was no longer off limits; the box was gone.
Christmas Eve rolled around. Traditionally, that night was spent with my grandparents, when we opened presents from the family. (Christmas Day was when we opened gifts from Santa.) Present after present was opened, and finally all mine were unwrapped. Needless to say, no dollhouse. I had pretty much resigned myself to it at this point.
One present was left, though, and my dad brings in this big box for my baby brother Tyler, who was barely a year old. Since it was about five times bigger than him, my parents ordered me to help him unwrap it, which, whoa, salting the wounds a little, right? Glumly, I tore off the paper...it was my Little Tikes dollhouse.
Cue me losing my freaking mind.
Well played, Mom and Dad. This is still my very happiest Christmas memory.
Later, I ditched the lame plastic family that came with the house and made it an awesome Barbie condo and temporary puppy hospital.