How to Traumatize Your Child, Part 2

As you see in the title, this is part two.  Part 1 is here, or just scroll down to previous post.  I’m continuing with my mother giving my stuff away against my will and without asking.

Yesterday, we talked about her giving my special doll to the church garage sale.  It happened again.  I’ve been a garage sale fan since junior high, and in high school, found a gorgeous antique, full length mirror.  It needed some repair, but I got it for $5.  FIVE DOLLARS.  ANTIQUE.  The Engineer, whom I was dating at the time, (and if you’re new – am now married to, 20 years) was going to fix it.  The mirror had separated from the frame.  Easy-peasy for a DIY like him.  He just hadn’t gotten to it yet.  I come home for the weekend some time during my freshman year in college and my mirror, which used to be behind my door, is gone.  This next part should sound familiar.

“Mom, where’s my mirror?”

“I gave it to the church garage sale”

“How could you?  It’s ANTIQUE.”

“It’s broken.  It’s worthless, I gave it away.”

Off to the church we go, retrieve mirror.  Made my mother PROMISE to leave my stuff alone.  I’d take care of giving and saving and garage donations and stay out of my room!

All was well.  Nothing else happened until my Farmor (Father’s mother) died in1998.  My mother called me from Sweden.  “If you could have only one keepsake from Farmor, what would it be?”  I described in detail the blue little table with the six little drawers, all hand-painted and with gorgeous legs.  I think they call them spindle-turned, but that’s not really important here.  This was a piece of furniture that contained sewing notions: ribbons, lace, thread, you name it, all categorized.  I was allowed to play with it.  Use anything I wanted.  “Are you sure you don’t need this for something, Farmor?”  “What could possibly be more important than letting my granddaughter have it?”  That’s how she was.  With everything.  It was always about us.

“Mom, do you know which table I’m talking about?”

“Of course.  There’s not much of her furniture left here.”

(Farmor had been in assisted living  many years by the time she died.)

Fast forward to the long-awaited, slow boat shipment from Sweden arriving.  We open it together.  My table isn’t there.

“Oh honey, about that.  We decided it would make the perfect gift for the staff.  They loved it and wanted it for their main living area, so we gave it to them.”

Are you kidding me?  You asked me what was THE most important thing, and then you disregarded that and gave it away.  To strangers.  Not to the granddaughter with the happy memories of sewing lace creations while Farmor made dinner, chatting away about anything and everything.  Gone forever.  Because you didn’t really listen to me.  Or you didn’t care.  Or whatever.  But I still haven’t gotten over it.  I don’t think I will either.  Would you?

Since I can't show you the table, here's a favorite picture of Farmor and Farfar and an eleven year old Tina, with eight year old Swissie.