Playing House

I guess until one has a husband, children and home of one's own; girls never stop playing house. Or at least being interested in it. It's the way we're wired. God created us to be a helper and the nurturer of children. A keeper of the home. Even if the home is imaginary. Or so small only one's hands fit inside.

This weekend, a couple of friends invited me over to their house for dinner on Saturday. As I was leaving that evening, I stopped in their living room to admire the beautiful grandfather clock my very soul envied. Then I saw what sat next to it: a dollhouse worthy of the any little girl's dreams.

Every Christmas from the time I was four or five until I was nearly thirteen, I asked for a dollhouse. And every Christmas I didn't get one. I got over it until I was eighteen or nineteen and my youngest sister asked for a dollhouse for Christmas. She got one. I remember setting it up with her, happy that she got her dream but aching that I never did. Even as I write this, approaching the age of 31, my heart hurts that I never had one. I guess now I must hope and pray the Lord will one day give me a home of my own. And a little girl who will want a dollhouse. Then I can enjoy it with her.

I thought about that dollhouse on the way home that night. It was so lovely. It sat on a turntable. When you spun it around, the lights came on. It had wood floors, and lovely furniture, and a little family to enjoy it. Even though the little girls who played with it for hours are now grown, it sits in a prominent place for them to enjoy and remember. Remember the days and weeks spent imagining a home of their own just like that one with children to care for, and furniture to dust, and a kitchen to prepare meals in. It's odd to think it doesn't really matter that I now know children are a handful and time consuming, dusting and sweeping isn't what one does for fun, and preparing meals can be monotonous. I still want to "play house".