It was 1997, dangerously close to Christmas, and I stood in front of a wall of expensive looking boxes at our neighbourhood toy store. I was stumped. Should I buy the Victorian dollhouse for my toddler, soon to be 3? It was sturdy yet gorgeous but the price tag was hefty. Smaller than the mortgage we had just secured for our real house, our first, but still a stretch.
Nearby, a young girl, whom I guessed to be about 9, pointed to a box of dollhouse accessories.
"Look, Mom, there's the latest set!"
"Do you like that dollhouse?" I asked. She nodded and smiled.
Her mom was happy to share. Her nine year old adored the thing and played with it ahead of any other toy in their home.
That was it then. I could expect 6 years of play value. Not bad. There were no buttons, batteries or flashing sirens-even better. The girl and her mom were still trying to choose which accessory to buy as I plunked the cash down on the counter.
We didn't get to the box until late Christmas Eve. Santa put it together with some help from the IKEA curse word dictionary. There were shingles to place, buds to plant and tiny spats to adorn tinier feet. I don't recall when we went to bed but we staggered down a few hours later to see Santa's stash. The dollhouse stood in the centre of the floor with a 3 inch family and servants alongside, a Downton Abbey for miniaturists. My daughter picked up one of the figures and began to name them.
It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
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