My first Barbie had a secret origin story that my mom just told me, making it even more special to me now

• As a toddler, I wanted a Barbie for Christmas but didn't tell my parents so was left disappointed.
• When my mother felt guilty, my grandmother drove them to find a store open on Christmas Day.

Everyone remembers their first Barbie — or at least, that's what I've come to believe since the iconic doll has dominated headlines surrounding the release of the record-breaking blockbuster film. Whether your first Barbie was a gift from a loved one, a secondhand blessing bestowed upon you by someone who had outgrown her, or the hard-earned result of patiently saving your meager allowances, every Barbie has a story. What's more, every Barbie story seems to be retold with the same wide-eyed wonder, shaped by that moment we took in her perfectly molded, miniature features for the first time.

Recently, my mother and I were reminiscing about the Barbies of my past — the limited-edition Barbie I became enamored with long after I'd aged out of playing with dolls, convincing myself that she was clearly too elegant to be for little kids; the golden-retriever Barbie set that I saved up for to satisfy my puppy obsession until I could finally persuade my parents to adopt a real dog; the Barbie who lost her head in a freak hair-detangling accident and whose funeral was well attended by my stuffed animals. But it wasn't until that conversation when my mom first shared the best Barbie story of all.

My secret desire for a Barbie had led to disappointment

It was a Christmas morning in the early 2000s, and I was in the throes of my terrible twos, that stubborn toddler age when children start to develop and express their own desires. My parents always said one of the main reasons they were excited to have a family was that children make the holidays more memorable.

Passing along the traditions they cherished in their youth, creating new ones, and getting to be the masterminds behind bringing their childhood fantasies to life, even if only for one day a year, is almost more thrilling for them than it is for us kids. This year was no exception. Along with my maternal grandmother, my parents have always gone above and beyond to make every Christmas magical — so magical, in fact, that I was a firm believer in Santa Claus until well into my adolescence.

This year as I began to open my gifts, my parents were surprised as I reacted to each one not with an excited squeal but with a sigh and a soft, "Oh, it's not a Barbie …"

My grandmother's spontaneity made it a magical Christmas

Until this point, I hadn't even mentioned wanting one. Panicked, my parents pushed onward, hoping my spirits would lift as the day went on. But with each tiny, defeated sigh, my mom's heart grew heavy. After every last box had been unwrapped, she tucked me into my crib for an afternoon nap before joining the other adults around the dining table.

Lingering in the anxious silence, my mom worried that if she said what she was thinking, her own mother might scold her for spoiling me. But after a few moments, she took a leap of faith and mumbled, "Boy, I kind of wish I could go to a store and get her a Barbie."

Before she'd even finished that thought, my grandma leaped out of her seat and yelled, "I'll drive!" Wrapped up in her concern, my mother had failed to consider that perhaps the reason she's such a wonderful mother was that she was raised by one, too. So the two of them hopped in the car and sped off to the only store open on Christmas Day to find me the Barbie of my dreams.

I remember getting my first Barbie, but knowing how she came to me makes her even more special

Hearing the story from my mom's point of view provides a whole new perspective. I'll never forget being woken up from my nap to the news that, in his rush during the night before, Santa had accidentally left one of my presents in his sleigh and returned to our house to make a special delivery. My mom gently led me to the Christmas tree and there, with flowing golden locks and a shimmering iridescent blue mermaid tail, was the most beautiful Barbie. My Barbie. The best Barbie — she could swim, just like me! I made an unspoken promise that I would love her forever (or at least until her head fell off).

That moment has always remained so magical, even as I grew out of my childhood toys. But now, knowing the full story behind my first Barbie has made it even more so. That one small, spontaneous action that my mom and grandma took to make my Christmas special has lived on as one of my most precious memories, serving as a reminder of how deeply they care and how truly loved I am.