I have concluded that I am a certifyable nutcase. But you probably already knew that.
So here's what happened. My husband decided that we needed to unload stuff we hadn't used in a year or two. That was fine. I agreed to go through things and come up with a pile for donations. One of the things my husband wanted to get rid of, was a huge pink Victorian doll house that my daughter got from her grandparents when she was five years old. This thing weighs at least 40 pounds. It's made of wood and has all kinds of cute wooden Victorian furniture in it. It was also custom-designed by my daughter. She had picked out the floor patterns and wall paper to match our first house - the house where she was born.
My mother-in-law, a nice lady from Poland, was so happy to give this to her granddaughter. "I never thought I'd be able to give my grandchildren something this nice," she had said with tears in her eyes.
I told her I would pass it on to her great-grandchildren.
It didn't look like that was going to happen, because the doll house now sat in the donation pile. I wasn't too happy about it, but I understood that a forty pound doll house that wasn't used anymore was a big thing to lug through life. "I'll ask the neighbors if they want the doll house for their girls."
I marched to the neighbor's house with my daughter, and asked them if they wanted it.
"Sure," they said. "We'll be over in a little bit to look at it."
Meanwhile, my daughter and I went home and took pictures of the doll house that was now in our garage. My daughter told me about how she picked out the wallpaper. And about how Grandpa picked out the wallpaper in one room. And how she didn't like his choice. But now she does. And I remembered playing dolls with her when she was little. And then I remembered our old Victorian house - the one I never wanted to leave. And I remembered what Granny had said.
I started to get a little emotional.
A little while later, the neighbors came over with their girls. Of course the girls liked the house. "We'll go get our car and take it to our house."
Fine. I went back in my house and hid in the office. I didn't want to see it go. My husband happened to notice that I looked a little upset. "What's the matter?" he asked.
"I just don't want to get rid of the doll house," I said. "Too many memories. Or maybe I'm just being hormonal."
"Are you pregnant?"
Huh? Was I that bad when I was pregnant? Okay, maybe I was.
"No. As far as I know, I'm not."
"Should I go out there and tell them we changed our mind?"
I didn't want to disappoint the little girls who thought they were getting a doll house. "No," I said. "Just let them have it."
Then I had a meltdown. I was just so upset about that doll house.
"Okay," my husband said. "We won't get rid of it. Apparently this thing means a lot to you." He went outside when the neighbors arrived and told them we changed our mind. Fortunately they were cool about it. We gave the girls some talking stuffed animals to make up for it. They were thrilled.
So now the doll house sits in our basement to collect dust for the next twenty years. Am I crazy, or what?