I'm going with a friend to see a matinee of "The Illusionist" the French animated film, by the director of "The Triplets of Belleville". I expect it to be delightful. In the meantime, there are groceries to be purchased and Spanish to be studied, and other tasks. It's beautiful again, and with the east coast so snowed in, I feel lucky to be where I am. I am getting excited about my trip to see my granddaughter, and thinking of little things to bring her. My foster granddaughter sent me the sweetest card in the mail yesterday, and I love her writing and spelling. They are both fiery and spunky, and those are qualities I adore.
I'm not sure how much my mother appreciated them in me, but I did feel loved and special. I had a whole army of admirers from my mother's huge family, and my father's one sibling was very attentive as well. He bought me a sapphire ring and as I grew would replace it with one of a bigger size. When I was first married he bought me pearls at Macy's, and then he was done. I wasn't his special niece any more, and I understood. I had someone else to adore.
But my mother's next oldest sister sewed me things, then sewed for my kids. The last thing she made before she died was a bunch of clothes for a barbie doll, which she had no idea I did not allow in the house. The clothes were so exquisite I finally broke down and bought a Snow White doll that the clothes would fit. And then realized another reason to never go near barbies. The clothes are actually impossible for a child to get on - it's up to the poor mother to yank and twist to clothe the little anorexic monsters.
I still have some stuffed animals my grandmother made for my kids when they were toddlers. The kids are not sentimental about them, but I am. Thus the massive clutter in my house. I'm too soft hearted to give them away, though most are stored in the basement or under beds. Objects have power, and handmade things are my weakness.
No comments:
Post a Comment