Dead Baby

My grandmother gave me several ornaments when I was little.

I’ll define “little” for you because I’m still little among a forest of very tall cousins.

6 years old or less. THAT little.

Okay, so let’s say that I am 4 years old. I’m wearing the tree skirt safety pinned around my waste, sitting cross legged on the floor, unwrapping my ornament.

In this little box, being opened by a very small me, is a palm sized little porcelain baby adorned in a simple pale pink nightgown from a different time period.

I LOVE HER. She’s delicate and fragile. I make her a soft bed. I scheme to keep her out of the ornament box, saddened by the prospect of this very cold and smooth, lifeless object being packed away in the attic for several months of the year. I’m terrified that she’ll fall from the tree to her death.

I was enamored and convinced that my grandmother had given me the most special ornament and I thought I was special for having received it.

My grandmother soon died and I was left with very few memories of her, cherishing each possession I had to keep her alive in my mind.

Ah, dead baby ornament, how I love thee.

WHAT?

Dead baby ornament?

Dead baby ornament is SUPER creepy, folks. CREEP-E. And it wasn’t until I was a full blown adult, a bit more self-assured, that I became a little less sensitive about dead baby ornament.

My Dad has been relentless (for years), dreading the moment I rediscover this particular ornament, hopeful that it will not be on full display in a prime location on the tree.

“Oh good, we found dead baby ornament!” nearly choking in his laughter. “Look at that thing!” Snorting.

I did NOT find this amusing at all. Not one bit. How could YOU? How could you make fun of such a special ornament?

Yeah, but here’s the thing. The nightgown tied behind her head, is the point at which I attached the hook. The overall effect is that I am hanging the baby… on the tree, yes, but you know… it is disturbing.

She’s dead baby.

And despite many attempts at finding alternative points of attachment, there was no way around it (cue Dad laughing even harder). I may have even attempted to fashion her a bed in which to lie on the tree. There were years I would squirrel her away, keeping her from the tree out my sensitivity. Unwilling to move her to a less obvious location… on the back of the tree.

So…

As usual, I was minding my own business (yes, I know you are laughing at my audacity in uttering such a statement), working diligently on Christmas gifts when the emails began arriving in my inbox.

Among the many Christmas tree related emails from my Dad, one in particular read “The Dead Baby.”

Thanks Dad. I was missing dead baby this Christmas and more importantly the sentiment of family she continues to possess.

And now, I present to you: