As a child I wasn't bothered by this. I was a rough kid and toys got broken. No big deal. Eventually, my sister and I outgrew our interest in dolls and the dollhouse was sent to live in the garage with all the other 'kiddie' toys my Mema hopes grandchildren will put to good use. I would pass by the dollhouse everyday on my way to the teenage staple called 'the soda fridge', and look at that doll house; that scribbled, dented, poor abused doll house. Age wasn't kind to it. The glue in the seams began to yellow, and dust settled between the shingles in thick sheets.
It was around that age that I had really started to create things. Not just drawn pictures, but *things* that existed, that you could hold and manipulate. I had begun to take interest and pride in my work, often marveling at the things hands are capable of creating, and wondered how my Papa felt when building that house. I imagined him working on his Shopsmith, sawing and sanding and putting love into a gift for his daughter only to watch it be careless treated and disregarded. I started to wonder how I would feel if I saw something I put effort and love into treated in such a way.
That's really when the guilt began.
I felt *terrible* that my sister and I had treated such a thoughtful gift so thoughtlessly, and sought to right the many wrongs I had shown that dollhouse. My plan: Operation Summer Renovation. I was going to use my precious summer vacation to overhaul and update that sucker. I would sand, shingle, and shellac that bad boy until all traces of my childhood negligence were erased from the planet. This would be no easy task for a girl with no carpentry skills in an un-airconditioned garage in the Virginia summer humidity/heat, but I was bound and determined to meet the task head on. I went to my sister with my plan, sure that she would join in on my plans to make amends to the house we treated so badly.
Much to my surprise, she shot down my plan right from the start; no reason given except that it was 'her dollhouse'. It was in fact her dollhouse, so I really didn't have any room to argue with her. The summer goes by quickly and the dollhouse remains untouched. The school year passes and as final exams roll around I find myself with renewed vigor at the idea of dollhouse renovation. I approach my sister again, and the results are the same.
This pattern *literally* repeats for years. All throughout high school and the beginning of college, Operation Summer Renovation never made it past the initial planning stages. Finally, fed up with the entire situation, I ask my sister exactly *why* she won't let me make over the dollhouse.
Turns out she wanted to be the one to decorate it.
Well, hey! Works for me! I didn't want to decorate it in the first place! I just wanted to fix up the damage we did! She and I came to agreement that she would come up with decoration plans, and I would prep the house for her to go all HGTV on. Sadly, the plans never came. My sister lost interest in decorating the tiny rooms, and I moved out of my parent's house, loosing the free time awarded to me by summer vacation. I find other projects to fill my time, and the dollhouse sat undisturbed in the garage.
Years pass, I get engaged, and the wedding is fast approaching. My Papa takes me down to the garage for a 'surprise' he's been working on. Due to trips overseas it wouldn't be done in time for the wedding, but it was most of the way there. I opened the door and there it was:
The dollhouse! All fixed up! Or, so I thought. Papa then explained that this dollhouse wasn't the old dollhouse at all, but one he made especially for me! Sure enough, the old dollhouse still stood where it always had, unfinished and unfurnished; and the one before me was newly assembled and freshly painted (in my wedding colors!).
I was pretty much ready to load that sucker into my car and take it home, but Papa insisted on finished the railing installation on the outside before I took it home (which I agreed to). The dollhouse was later delayed in coming home with me because we realized after making the trip to pick it up that it was too big to fit into my car. I drive a Honda Fit, which according to the advertisements can totally fit a llama:
See all this hatch space available for comfortable llama seating? Too small for the megalith of my dollhouse!
So I waited some more until my Mema and Aunt had a day off to drive it up in my Aunt's truck.
But it has arrived, and I have been planning.
Planning, and waiting.
Waiting for the right moment to begin what will likely be a decades long endeavor.
Waiting for a 3-day weekend.
That weekend was this weekend.
And so, it began.
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