From the age of 7 up until high school, I thought I would grow up to be a historical reenactor, working at Williamsburg, churning butter and wearing straw hats. I'm only telling you this because I trust you not to tell anyone else. It's pretty embarrassing.
It all started with American Girl dolls. Micha and I got our first dolls in '88, back when they were still incredibly special and handmade in Germany. The dolls (Kirsten and Sam to start with) and their clothes were neat, but what I loved most were the miniature doll antiques that went with them.
Samantha's Victorian artist's box had actual tubes of oil paint, which thrilled me to no end. Real paint! In metal tubes!
Samantha's Victorian artist's box had actual tubes of oil paint, which thrilled me to no end. Real paint! In metal tubes!
Coming from a family that supports a healthy obsession, my dad built my sister and I a 3 story dollhouse that topped out at 10 feet tall. So tall it can't fit through any of our doorways. It's still there, full to the brim with wallpaper, miniature quilts, little christmas trees during the holidays. I'm pretty sure my mom spent all of her disposable income keeping us stocked in doll sized hatboxes.
I think my mom got a kick out of seeing me sprawled out on the living room floor, methodically dusting and straightening everything in the dollhouse when I was taking these pictures. I swear, I was not playing with dolls, 25 year olds don't play with dolls. I was playing with things inside the dollhouse. Which, you know, is kind of the same thing.
Again. Don't tell anyone, I'm trying to retain a smidgen of dignity here.
Again. Don't tell anyone, I'm trying to retain a smidgen of dignity here.
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