When I was seven or eight, my mom went on a rare afternoon of solitary errands. She returned bearing groceries, dry cleaning, and gifts. As far as I know, there was no special occasion--my mom simply gave into a whim. Not that I was complaining, it was just unusual for my budget-conscious mom to spend frivolously. I waited with uncharacteristic patience during the distribution of special items to everyone else, knowing that my mom would never forget me and I would get a turn. I don’t recall what she brought for my brothers, other than remembering them as the type of treats ordinarily saved for birthdays or Christmas, but I can vividly bring to mind the contents of the last bag in her hand. Th
e moment she emerged with blonde curls, a pastel gingham dress, and eyes that opened and closed, I knew she was meant to be mine…until my mom said she thought the doll would make a perfect gift for a little girl at church who was having a birthday. My heart sank as I (unsuccessfully) tried to put on a brave face, but my mom couldn’t keep the joke going and put that beautiful baby in my arms. She said no one wanted to buy Catherine because one of her shoes was broken, and I marveled at the shortsightedness of people. I think of that day every time I read Don Freeman’s classic, Corduroy, about a little bear missing a button and the girl who loved him.http://www.amazon.com/Corduroy-Don-Freeman/dp/0670241334
http://donfreeman.info/
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