Things were different back there in the fifties. Our lives, as children, were filled with wonder and playing was our heart's desire. I seriously think that we had imaginations that were so much more expansive than those of today's children. I mean, we really thought that the things we played with had lives. The boys were real cowboys, the girls were real mommies. And, our parents made sure that we had all the best ways in which to create our dream worlds. Days were filled with the joys of becoming whatever or whomever we wished to become. There were very few limits to our ability to transport ourselves into the roles of grown-up super people. How many little boys suffered broken limbs from their leaps of "tall" buildings as Superman? How many little girls had babies who never grew out of infancy?
My mother and father were two of the greatest parents a kid could have. Christmas always earned them that high rating. They outdid themselves each and every year. I'm sure my brother had the best of toys a boy could have and I know for certain that I had the finest dolls and doll equipment. My mom loved my love of dolls and must have gotten such joy watching me play. I loved my dolls. I never for one minute ever thought that they were not real babies. I strolled them in strollers, dressed them, bathed them and even fed them. Remember Tiny Tears? She drank from a bottle and needed diaper changes. Of course she was real.
So, why was I sad?
I guess it was my own stupid kid fault. I thought it would never end. I thought that my babies would be with me forever, need me forever. I wonder if the thought has crossed the little sister's mind? Does she talk to her babies? I passed too quickly to see....was her baby holding a Smart Phone?