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Tuesday, February 22nd, 2011 01:12 pm
I was thinking about this the other day, I'm not sure why, but I felt the need to write about it. I'm cutting because its random and a wee bit sad. Feel free to pass it on by.

When I was little my dad made me a doll house. It was the most amazing doll house ever.

It was red with pink shutters and he used real wallpaper scraps to wallpaper the walls and cut up washcloths to carpet all the floors.

He made a bunch of furniture from a kit, but stained every last piece with real wood stain and put tiny brass fixtures on them.

My father left the house every day at 6:30am and returned home around 6:30pm every night. He cooked dinner for my mother, who also worked long hours, and myself and then he sat down and worked on my doll house.

He put hours of work into that doll house every night until it was done.

I was thrilled beyond words. I loved it. I treasured it. But because I was raised well I shared my doll house. I shared it because I loved it and I wanted other people to have fun too. I've always found it more fun to share wonderful things than to keep them to myself. Several jealous friends, not liking that I had something so wonderful, destroyed it and all the furniture.

I was devastated. I cried. I cried not only because my beautiful doll house was wrecked I cried because I knew how much work my dad had put into it. I loved him for it. I loved him for coming home at night and being dead tired and still taking the time to build that doll house for me. I remember hugging him and sobbing my eyes out babbling about how sorry I was. He wasn't mad at me, but I was mad at myself. I was mad that I hadn't stood up more firmly to them, I was mad that I'd left them alone with it, I was mad I couldn't fix it. I was mad because my dad had put all that work into it and now it was gone.

To this day, I still admire all the work he did for me. I'm still upset about it. I've told him several times how much I loved it and how much I appreciated all the work he'd done and how sorry I was that it had been destroyed. He knew it was't my fault, but it still bothered me.

Talk about love. I know what it's like to come home dog tired. And he'd come home, cook our dinner, wash our dishes and then work hours on this doll house.

Someday, when I have the space in this house, and when I have the money, I am going to make a doll house. I'm going to build it, and paint it, and carpet the floors, and stain the furniture.

I'm going to dedicate it to my dad. Because he is just that awesome.


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