Monday Memory: a little ghost of Christmas Past...

I was thinking about Christmases past the other day and remembered, with some remorse, a Christmas when my dad treated me better than I was.

[image from comic-lair.com]

Back in the late eighties there was a cutesy little pre-teen brand of Minnie Mouse called "Minnie 'n Me" that I just adored. Every time we went to the mall we petitioned for a visit to The Disney Store and one Fall Saturday I found her there: a stuffed Minnie doll dressed in the familiar "Minnie 'n Me" getup. I was sure I had never wanted anything so much. She was perfect... except for the hefty price tag of $25 [I still say that is a lot for a stuffed animal!] Her pretty pink dress-up storage trunk with additional outfits: $50. Ouch.

I wistfully showed Minnie to my dad, despite the voice in the back of my mind that told me he would never go for it. Not surprisingly, he was aghast at the price. I begged just a little, mentioning Christmas. No luck. Instead of Minnie 'n me leaving the store that day, it was just me.

I couldn't forget her. And here is where this memory is painfully vivid. One night our family had gone somewhere and were passing the mall on our way home. In a desperate, last-ditch effort, I impishly asked Dad if we could go and get Minnie. He said no. Then I playfully pleaded. No. And then... I started to whine. The borderline-fake-tears, whimpery kind. After a few moments Dad assured me, very sternly, that we were not getting Minnie. Then I threw a fit and cried all the way home.

I shake my head at it now. Because I wasn't in the terrible twos or even the formidable fours. I was around 9 or 10. Sad. So sad. My parents must have wondered where they went wrong.

About a month or so later we were divvying up the presents on Christmas morning. My first present revealed a pink Minnie 'n Me watch. And then I came to a large package. I shook it, and was suddenly filled with a sense of foreboding. I slowly unwrapped the package. It was a large box with bright colors and Mickey Mouse's grinning face on every side. I swallowed and opened the box, and slowly, almost painfully brushed the tissue paper aside, afraid to look. There she was. My precious, coveted Minnie doll. But all I could think about was how I had acted a few weeks before. I was miserably ashamed. I casually put the box behind me, glad no one was watching, and quietly opened my other presents.

A few minutes later my dad came back into the room. He looked around and eagerly asked if I had opened my "big present." He saw it behind me at the same moment that I nodded and my eyes dropped. He looked at me earnestly, waiting for a gleeful reaction, but all I could manage was a sheepish smile and a shy, mumbled thank you. He seemed a little baffled at my response, and rightly so.

And so now, Dad, almost two decades later, I am still amazed at you. If I had been in your shoes, I probably would not have given me the Minnie doll after my outlandish outburst. But somehow, for me, actually getting the doll was worse, and I mean that in the very best way! It made me realize how selfish I had been, and that you loved me in spite of that and wanted to make me happy, and that made me want to be a better daughter and a better person.

Not bad for $25, eh?

Kinda makes you wonder what that $50 dress-up trunk would have done.

Luckily, I still turned out okay.
[Mostly...]

I know this is a little late, but,
Thanks
for the love, the doll
and
the lesson.