You arrived at our house, like so many things, via Amazon.  Someone (likely me) clicked “Buy” with the best intentions. What little girl wouldn’t love to strap her dolly in and take it for a stroll?  Um… turns out the answer is ours, who for the most part has preferred stacking magnatiles with her big brother to mothering her dolls.   So it turned out you were mostly relegated to the corner to sit in resigned silence.

Except when you weren’t.  Meaning, when you came out for the raucous games dreamed up by said big brother, usually begun with some sort of challenge: “Lyra, let’s push it as hard as we can to have a contest!” At which point you went careening through the house crashing into tables, chairs, walls, shins.

Occasionally, I’m sorry to say that someone much too big for your doll-sized frame tried to sit in you, and I can see that the fabric of your seat is torn and frayed and drooping on one side.

I’ll admit you were often an accessory to my desperate pleas to please-for-the-love-of-god-don’t-you-want-to-go-outside-and-play… anything???  (Followed up by a cheerfully ineffective:  Here!! Why don’t you take your dolly for a walk?!)

You didn’t cost very much.  I’m pretty sure you were made in China.  We won’t remember you when you’re gone, I’m afraid.

Much like the way we’ll forget how the decidedly unathletic six-year-old nonchalantly announced his Olympic intentions over breakfast this morning, the way the four-year-old cried,  “Don’t see!” each time she reached for a card on the pile over endless loops of her favorite card game, the way one beloved, way-out-of-season butterfly dress was stretched and twisted as a bite of egg was licked clean off.

You and I, my friend, seem to be called to face the same sobering truth.   That this childhood thing turns out to be one long string of intense, raucous, vibrant living followed by an equally intense and sometimes violent forgetting.

I hope you don’t take it personally.

I’m trying very hard not to.