Brittany had 101 Dalmatians but my movie was Anastasia. I had the Halloween costume, the books, the movie and a little Anastasia journal where I could store my most secret orphan/princess hopes and dreams. Of course I never actually recorded such hopes and dreams because then the journal would be full and I couldn't stare lovingly at the blank pages full of potential anymore. (I also never used stickers for the same reason...these are among the more normal things I did as a child.) The missing piece to my Romanov shrine was the toy version of the music box from the movie that played Once Upon A December.
Once I saw the commercial for this music box, all other life goals faded and owning this music box became my only interest in life. Colors seemed duller, food didn't taste as good, even my girl Amy Grant couldn't lift my spirits like she used to. Owning this music box was my destiny. Christmas was just around the corner. If I could hold out for a few weeks, the box would be mine and I would once again be a fulfilled human being.
I waited as patiently as humanly possible, being the perfect little angel that you all know and love. I knew my caring, perceptive parents would get me the music box because after watching the movie upwards of 100 times, reading me the book every night and I'm sure listening to me sing the soundtrack all over the house, they knew this was the one gift I desired more than anything else in the world. They're my parents. They pay attention to me...right? (SPOILER ALERT...WRONG! To this day my mother thinks I'm a vegetarian and my father calls me Julia more often than not. Bless their hearts.)
We head to my Granny's house for dinner Christmas Eve. I try to play it cool, playing with my cousins, making small talk, all that under the radar stuff. I'll get some cool presents here, head home, go to sleep and wake up to the Christmas of all Christmases. I feel a little bad for the other toys I'm sure to get and neglect but I didn't choose the Anastasia life, it chose me. After multiple helpings of sausage gravy, buttermilk biscuits and sausage balls (Missy still thinks I don't eat meat but a pig died just reading that sentence...PSA pigs can read) we get our presents. I open mine, say my thank yous and then something catches the very corner of my eye..an Anastasia music box, MY Anastasia music box, in the arms of none other than my cousin Sam!
All air left my tiny 5-year-old lungs, the light faded from my eyes, I might have lost consciousness for a minute, I can't be sure. I calmly walked over to Samantha and asked, through gritted baby teeth, "Who gave you that?" to which she replied the words that haunt me to this very day..."Aunt Missy."
BETRAYED! BY MY OWN MOTHER! Is this how Hamlet felt? To emancipate or not to emancipate? No longer a question because my mother just destroyed my will to live. I would be seeking legal counsel immediately after the holidays because Christmas was RUINED! RUINED!
I know what you're thinking. This isn't Sam's fault. She didn't understand the depth of my obsession. How could she? We were 5 short years into my life, she still thought I was normal. She didn't ask for the music box my mother all too happily bestowed upon her. And you're right. So was I happy for Sam, that she got such an incredible gift? No. Did I make sure that she wasn't on the receiving end of any misplaced anger? Also no.
I put on a happy face for December 25th as best I could so as not to spoil the holiday for anyone else but that year, for me, it was just another day.
Days turned into weeks and months. I watched the video less and less. I started dressing up as other characters. I stopped eating (that lasted about an hour). And eventually I stopped having my dad read me the story altogether. (I think this was mainly because my dad pronounced it Rah-spuh-tin not Ra-spew-tin and even at 5, that marred it for me.)
That music box stayed in my Granny's house for years, taunting me. Reminding me of the happy childhood I could have had with it by my side. As the years passed my mother went on to give away my Easy Bake Oven, donate my favorite shoes and she repeatedly denied my reasonable requests for an eyebrow piercing at age 11, while I never loved again. (To be fair, I did grow out of the shoes.)
Finally, this Thanksgiving, a little light broke through the barriers of broken dreams and heartbreak I had been putting up since Christmas of 1998. Back at Granny's that old music box was sitting on the dresser, collecting dust in the same spot for nearly a decade. The story of that music box got brought up (by me, 'cause I'm petty) and Sam told me I could have it, not believing any self-respecting 23-year-old would need a sphere of plastic to complete them. Well guess what Sam, I have no self-respect but I finally have my music box.
I would have given you the music box 16 years ago. (An encounter with the wrong cousin,��). At least a buried treasure finally made it to its rightful owner.
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