My younger daughter is a thoughtful, kind, feisty and remarkably free-spirited 7 year old. The kind of kid who, when I ask her (and I always do) if I can have a bite of her cookie, or ice cream, or bagel, says “Sure, take as much as you want.”
I like to work with wood. Over the years, I’ve made my two girls a bunch of wooden toys—dollhouses, dollhouse accessories, stables, cars, other stuff. This year, Faye asked me to make her a doll. I haven’t had much success with dolls. None, actually. But, last night (yeah, last night), armed with good intentions, a sharp knife, and a scrap of mahogany, off to the shop I went. My expectations were low—I was aiming for something primitive (waldorf style, if that means anything to you).
After an hour, I emerged from the basement with a doll that certainly was primitive. Real primitive. Any self-respecting Neanderthal child receiving such a gift would have rolled her eyes and tossed it onto the fire.
But not my Faye. When she opened the package, her eyes widened, a big smile spread across her face. “Oh, Daddy! A wooden doll! I love it! It’s beautiful! It’s just what I wanted!”
I got what I wanted too, pumpkin.
