Ever the planner, my perfectly thoughtful mother-in-law came up early with a gift to send our boys for the holidays.
“A toy kitchen,” she Blackberried in October.
This wasn’t just any toy kitchen, but a French provincial one — with an omelette pan and a plastic baguette.
Its gourmet appeal was obvious. Still, I feared it would sit unused by our 2- and 4-year-olds like the Peruvian shaker made of goat toenails a friend had sent in a jag of multicultural overambition.
Instead, I suggested a wooden dollhouse.
Unembellished, unisex and free of Chinese lead paint, it promised a healthy distraction from our little guys’ preoccupation with playing doctor by inserting toy thermometers deep into their navels.
“Great,” my mother-in-law e-mailed. “I’ll send a check.”
Then began two manic hours choosing natural wood furnishings far nicer than our own. This house would have a matching dining set, even if ours didn’t.
In a nod to my mother-in-law, I started with a kitchen set, complete with a swingtop trash can that promised lessons in food safety and tidiness.
Of course, the little wood toilet included in the bathroom set would inspire Ike to kick his diaper habit without the Gummi bears that we used to bribe his older brother.
And who could pass up the cute little bunk beds? The brother dolls would fall asleep under the gingham quilts without five books, two cups of milk and questions about why their doll parents don’t hang Christmas lights like their neighbors.
I filled my online shopping basket with $297 in housing stock and furnishings before facing my toughest decision — whether our doll family should be black, white, Latino or Asian.
“Just get two families, two races. It’ll teach them about diversity,” my husband said.
Interesting idea. But doll integration would cost $15.99 that I had budgeted for a patio set. After all, this is Colorado and the little family would want some fresh air.
I clicked on the box marked “Caucasian” and submitted my order.
The FedEx guy came seven weeks later with two boxes that we hid until the last night of Hanukkah.
My husband assembled the tri-level with surprising ease and lack of profanity.
Our boys popped bubble wrap while I decided where to put the furniture. The dining set the dolls hardly deserved warranted a room of its own, even if that meant Caucasian parents would have to sleep on the porch.
With the tiny toilet paper roll placed within their reach, the home finally was in harmony.
“Come play,” I said.
The boys lifted up the little garage door, rolled three of their favorite monster trucks into the kitchen, knocked down the sink and stove, and powered up the staircase and onto the roof with motorized sound effects hard-wired since birth. Then, they let go, cackling as their trucks crashed onto the patio.
“Pileup,” Ike yelled.
“Call 911,” added Abe, demonstrating an impressive sense of emergency preparedness.
They played not even a minute with the gift that was supposed to correct my domestic inadequacies. Then they ran off to crash their trucks in the empty FedEx boxes, away from my disappointed gaze.
Our dollhouse sits untouched two weeks later. It was wrong to wrap an offering from generous grandparents so tightly in my own issues.
For the purpose of this column, I asked the boys why they’re not playing with their present. Abe — who still finds wonder in shoveling snow — answered with a word we had never heard him utter.
“Because, Mom,” he said, “dollhouses are very, very boring.”
Susan Greene’s column appears twice a week. Reach her at 303-954-1989 or greene@denverpost.com.
