Believing in Magic or Becoming My Mother

My mother is a collector. Of antiques, of dolls, of lace patterns, embroidery magazines, lost arts. I remember being dragged to antique doll shows as a child, staying close to my mother as she meandered through row after row of vendors stalls' lined with tiny porcelain dolls and clothes and quilts. My dad would take a book and read outside; my sisters and I stayed with our mom, equal parts thrilled and alarmed by the miniature creatures peering at us from the displays. When you're little, the lines between truth and fantasy are awfully blurry.

These pictures are from my mother's dining room china cabinets. I took these pictures when we were in San Antonio for my birthday a couple of weeks ago.

These little dolls and the scenes my mother created held so much wonder for me as a child. I would stare at the tiny cakes and shoes and fur wraps and wonder about the lives of these little porcelain creations, never questioning their origin. They were real to me. I don't expect William to be thrilled with a whole set of Barbie shoes on a pink plastic three-tiered display, but I do want our house to hold wonder and magic for him. Our house doesn't have ANYTHING like this right now. Sure, I love our Pottery Barn paisley print velvet pillows, but that's just me.

So today I went to Hobby Lobby and picked up these. 

They're nothing special to most people. But in a few years, I plan on roughing up these tiny canvas gloves and leaving them in our backyard garden. "William," I will say, "look! Do you think a little elf left these here?" And then I will point to the tiny metal pail and fishing pole and real net. "Where did these come from?" And we will search for the miniature garden elf who left his things. Maybe we'll make some cookies and roll a very tiny pinch of dough just for him.