One afternoon, while I was playing with a neighbor, she proudly showed me a gift she had received, a Madame Alexander Pussy Cat doll. To my eight-year-old eyes, she was the most beautiful baby doll I had ever seen. She looked almost real. Her cheeks were chubby and rosy, her little arms and legs were soft and round, and tiny dimples marked her knees. Her eyes opened and closed, and when you tipped her just right, she said mama. She was perfect. I gushed over her, telling my friend Kim how beautiful she was and how I couldn’t wait to go home and tell my mom about her.
That excitement didn’t last long. Kim’s mother overheard our conversation and explained that the doll was very expensive and that my family could not afford such a luxury. I remember the sting of disappointment, but even at that young age, I understood something important. Family mattered more than material things. My mom always found ways to make our childhood feel special and magical, even without expensive gifts. What she gave us, love, attention, and imagination, was worth far more than any doll.
But moms have a way of creating their own quiet magic.
I’m not sure how my mother found out that I wanted that doll, but somehow she did. Without a word to me, she asked my dad to take her to a nearby toy store that carried Madame Alexander dolls. There, she put my doll, who would later be named Amy, on layaway. Month after month, she faithfully made payments until the doll was paid for in full. It was a labor of love I never noticed at the time.
On Christmas morning, I tore open my gift and froze. There she was, my very own Pussy Cat doll. I remember holding her close, hardly able to believe she was really mine. In that moment, I felt only the magic, not the sacrifice, planning, or quiet determination that had worked behind the scenes. Amy became an instant treasure, one that stayed with me through the years.
As an adult, I now understand what that gift truly represented. My mother wanted her only daughter to have something special that Christmas, and she was willing to sacrifice to make it happen. My Momma was, and always will be, a miracle worker in my eyes.
I still have my little Amy doll to this day, a reminder that she was never just a toy, but a symbol of my mother’s deep devotion. That little doll represents the kind of Christmas magic only a mother’s love can create.
Sometimes I would help grandma with her garden. On one side of her home, she grew rhubarb. In front on either side of her front porch, strawberries, Johnny Jump Ups, and pansies filled her pint-sized yard. We would visit and share stories, while I pulled weeds. She would often share family stories, and from her, I discovered my love for storytelling. Like her, I wanted my grandchildren to know where their stories began.
When I chatted with my grandpa, we always talked about horses and life on the ranch. I loved the adventurous romance of it all. We shared that common bond, the desire to live in the country, and a love for horses. I often pleaded with my parents to return to Colorado, but my mama used to tell me that ranch life was tough, and a lot of hard work. She would often smile at my childish pleas and recite the following poem:
Tales of a Family 