Dolls in the hallway.

March 21 was, to date, the last time I saw my daughter.  I drove down to watch her while Wife had surgery.   I noticed that Daughter's room was cleared out of almost all of her toys- especially her stuffed animals.  She kept some, yes.  All the unwanted stuffed animals and dolls were lined up in the hallway.  They were to be given away or sold.  Many of them, I'd given her.  Some I'd given to Wife before Daughter was even a possibility. 

Daughter outgrew them.

Daughter (here 4 years old) LOVED that horse.  Then... she got too big to ride it.

Her childhood is over, and with it, that sense of Wonder at the world- that sense of innocent discovery.  That time to play with her toys in worlds of her own mind that I will never see.  But I could have- all I had to do was to be there to watch.  Or even sometimes participate.  But, those worlds are hers alone, and she didn't access them when I was around because my being around was a "special occasion" instead of a given routine. 

When I was there, we couldn't be in the house, as I'm not allowed there.  So we always had to go somewhere- usually to the mall, or the grocery store, or to lunch.  Wife would be there as well.  It was very rare that I was with Daughter alone, and I'm ok with that, as it meant I was with Wife. 

She is now a pre-teen.  Puberty began some time ago.  It won't be long before she begins to have an interest in boys (or girls) romantically.  Crushes.  Heartbreaks.  Love's little joys and humiliations.  That first dance.  The first kiss. 

But dad is far away, and won't be there to share her joy when I pick her up from the dance, or to comfort her sorrow at the first rejection. 

Dad isn't there.  Dad hasn't been there.  For going on seven years.  She was FIVE when I was thrown out.  She was a young child, a precocious little girl whose happiness was my chief desire- whose well-being was my top responsibility.  Who lived under the same roof, slept a couple of rooms away, and who ate at the same table.  When she ate- she was a picky eater. 

Daughter at Disney, 2011.  I wasn't invited- and had to work

It all ended because I was Born Different.  Because I couldn't contain that difference burning inside me.  I did so for twenty five years... then failed.  Now, I'm miles away, and her childhood ended without me.

One of my few memories of my pre-teen years was that I didn't want my childhood to end.  I enjoyed playing with my toys, each with their own personalities, and retreating into that world where I HAD these friends- even though most of them were plastic.  And they were friends with each other.  And there were adventures.  And when i lay in bed crying after another spanking, or after being beat up by the neighborhood bully- knowing that I wasn't supposed to cry- MEN don't cry. 

"Do I have to come up there?" I'd hear echo up the winding stairs of the old house where I grew up.  Everyone my age knows THAT phrase.

My toys would play games with me.  I'd set up a board game, and my toys would take the other pawn colors so I'd have "opponents."  Rarely, my brother would join in with his toys, so there'd be teams, and we'd keep score of victories (winner choses next game) on rainy summer days.  Eventually, I lost interest in those games.  I pretended to lose interest in my toys.  They started slowly to disappear.  Sold?  Thrown out?  No idea.

Sixth Grade- when I was Daughter's current age

I still have some of them.  They once lived in an old, large wooden toy box, but now live in two cardboard boxes in storage.  Every once in a while, when I visit the storage unit alone, I'll open one of those boxes, look in, and there'd they be- lifeless, some broken- plastic.  Outgrown- because that's what happens.  I remember desperately wanting more time to play, but I had to go work my (and my brother's) paper route.  Homework.  Eventually, girls.  And... dressing up like the girl I knew I was inside. 

Maybe the reason I like gaming (D&D, etc.) so much is because I didn't want that time to end.  That I wanted more time to be a child, instead of... what I've become.

I don't know how daughter feels about "outgrowing" her toys.  I don't know if she gives them a second thought.  Unlike me, she isn't the sentimental type.  She sets things aside and moves on; a skill I never acquired.   


I know it's unfair- it's her time to grow up, but I DON'T WANT HER TO because I missed it.  Because I wanted to share that childhood with her, and see it through her eyes and maybe catch some of that sense of Wonder that I so desperately miss in myself. 


Here I am.  Sobbing at my keyboard over something that I'm powerless to stop or change.  My God I hate my life.  I hope she doesn't hate hers.