A house of dreams

My first-grade friend Ashley Miller had the Barbie dream house. A three-story mansion. For a little girl living in a ranch, it was incredible. And I had to have it.
I asked for it for Christmas. I asked for it for my birthday.

My baby sister got one years later.

Instead, my homeless Barbies got to improvise. The cardboard cases of Girl Scout cookie boxes became the building blocks of some serious square footage. Our Barbie's homes would stretch in custom communes that covered my bed and bedroom floor. And each time it had a new look.

Flash forward 30 years, and my daughter tells me she wants Barbie dream house for her birthday.


But you already have a Barbie house your uncle bought you at Christmas, I remind her.


But it's not a dream house. It's small.


I sigh. The "starter home" tucked away in the corner truly hasn't seen much play time, and she's asking for an expansion.

So I tell her the story of a little girl, whose imagination, a little brother and a lot of cookies made for great memories of building Barbie mansions. Her eyes light up. "That's a great idea!" she says.

Here's hoping that her dreams create that "dream house" of her imagination. I can't wait to see what they bring.

Persistence, patience and a princess

Patience is a virtue. And tonight, my princess learned that things can be worth the wait.

This tale starts with a night like many other nights. A casual drive home from daycare. A discussion of all highlights of the day: from what was eaten at snack to who fell down or got into trouble.

Then, as we turned a corner in our subdivision, I saw it. A pink dressing table, complete with mirror and stool, stood at the side of the road, beckoning to be saved. No princess would be complete without one. At least that's what my daughter has mentioned from time to time.

Nevermind that her birthday was next month; cost and reality of a child's fickleness meant that a gift of this nature was not in the making. But a freebie was worth the consideration. I pulled to the side of the road.

It was technically free, but it would come at a cost. The thing was covered in grime, smudges I suspect (hope) were simply mommy's makeup, and in a few cases, things I'm just not sure I'd want to know what they were. (To give you a sense, the pictures were after a good hosing off!)

I walk to the car and sigh. And I propose a solution. "It's gross, really gross," I tell my daughter. "If you want it, you're going to have to help clean it up and clean up your room so it can go there."

She eagerly agrees. And I pick up the encrusted dressing table and toss it in the back, hoping nothing too disgusting makes its way inside.

Yes, my daughter has learned another lesson tonight: How to scrounge at the tender age of four. I guess she's ready for college.

After dinner, I cart the thing to the backyard and hit it with a power wash. Or two. At least half the dirt and the crusty stuff is gone. Then I summon the troops.

Both troopers come outdoors with rags and a small bowl of baking soda, ready to help.

The toddler lasts a few minutes before he turns to the hose, soaking me in the process, cackling enthusiastically. My daughter, to her credit, keeps scrubbing until I announce that with the heat, it's time to quit for the evening.

While it's not quite perfect yet, we're down to small smudges that I can take care of quickly on my own. And as soon as that's accomplished and the bedroom is successfully tackled, this might actually make it indoors.

What you don't see here is the face of a pretty princess, dressed to the nines in her frilly pink swimsuit, perched on a freshly washed stool by her freshly washed dressing table. With the smile of satisfaction and pride on her face.

Because something she waited for and worked for finally came to be.

I hope it's a lesson she'll remember for years to come.

No beeping here

A word of warning to my family members who haven't done their shopping yet: No beeping, blinking, animated toys need apply.

Here's what we've learned in the week since the day care's Christmas party and a small family birthday celebration:

Out of a blinking, noisy dump truck, a noisy Thomas train, a Fisher Price dump truck (complete what's since been dubbed "Cool Guy" by the recipient) and a wooden truck, guess which toy won out?

The quiet one.

Yep, it's the truck and wooden horses sent from the grandparents that are the big hit. Those horses and truck have traveled around the house and back on a daily basis. The horses hang out at the kitchen table, climb into the crib, gallop on the hope chest and "neigh" the way across my bed. And yes, being in the hands of a now 2-year-old, they sometimes smash into one another as well.

Sometimes flash isn't as much fun!

Save the animals

Save the animals.

Really. As a parent, that's one of my greatest pleas this holiday season.

Just about any mother of a little girl can tell you that they're swimming in stuffed animals. Small ones. Fluffy ones. Musical ones. Ones so large that can wear their child's clothes.

If these were real animals, the codes people would be in force.

The problem with these fluffy friends is they're cute. Look at their sweet faces. The soft furr. The just-right-for-snuggling size.

And then they join the herd, forced to a lifetime of being squished in their corral of the parents' choice, largely forgotten until the day mom or dad decide they have had enough and attempt to clean out.

And what can you do with stuffed animals who have lost their love? Parents don't want them. You can hardly donate them. Instead, many of them meet the same fate as one Build-a-Bear, casually tossed on the curb down my street.

This holiday season, save the animals. If you think your family's or friends' children need someone to cuddle, there are little arms waiting for real hugs.