Would it be possible you have too many clothes?
Have you ever seen an exploding closet?
It isn’t pretty.
Find out how one happened to this only child.
The title causes diverse reactions in people. Some sarcastically think,
“Oh sure. Poor little rich girl, got everything she ever wanted.“
How far from the truth can anyone be? My dad taught high school and moonlighted as a coach.
Money’s tightness reminds me of some teenager’s or Dolly Parton’s jeans.
Often items I wanted weren’t ever in our monthly budget. This proved the rule rather than the exception.
Other not-too-nice comments are,
“But you got ALL your parents’ attention.”
That may be somewhat true. But Daddy worked long hours coaching and getting his master’s degree. I spent minimal time with him. “Daddy Times” were always special,
I spent a lot of time with my mother. She doted on me; her precious, loving, beautiful Barbie Doll.
My most memorable moments happened during the lovely times when she read to me. I love remembering mother reading to me, often and before bed.
She denied that she taught me to read. But she did when I was only four.
You really can’t argue with research. Reading research proves that reading to children helps them learn to read.
It worked for me. But Mother couldn’t be convinced. She remained skeptical.
By contrast, I also like people. I realize their importance to my life.
This seems like a dichotomy. But it isn’t. Being comfortable with yourself for long periods of time, as well as liking to be with people are compatible.
Back to my wonderful mother.
She made many clothes for me. An excellent prolific seamstress, she filled those long hours sewing for her daughter. My dad usually had a school function or class to attend.
By itself, that wasn’t bad. It created many good things:
- Made her not be lonely with dad away.
- Sewing Therapy
- Hobby for her.
She enjoyed sewing.
I didn’t want expensive store clothing.
Mom wasn’t the only one alone. I spent much time alone, also.
Being alone, but never lonely, often causes an introspective nature.
Writers spend much time by themselves writing. My alone time as an only child prepared me for a writer’s life.
Some kids whose mother sewed for them wouldn’t be caught dead in those clothes.
Not me. My pride showed when I wore those beautiful garments.
Aside from clothing, she made household items.
She saved money by making these items. That allowed me to attend church camp for a week every summer. Mother’s thriftiness made possible for me the luxury item of taking piano lessons.
Mother died in 1980. All these years later, I’m unable to let go of some items she made. While other clothes are bought and worn, I hang onto clothes mother made me.
They’re of good quality, the construction’s excellent, they remain in good shape. I even wear them occasionally.
Since I prefer a classic style, the clothes can be worn a while. Dresses, blouses, skirts and pants, some haven’t been worn for years.
Clothes hang in my closet, constantly reminding me of several things;
- They aren’t worn often enough
- Mother’s love and devotion.
- Clothing constructed for her only child.
- I’ve no idea why they remain.
- I can’t let them go.
Each time I purchase a new clothing article, my husband teases me by saying,
“What are you going to get rid of, if you buy that?”
I make plans to clear my closet. Then the deed never gets done.
This haunts me.
My whirly gig emotions of sadness and confusion intermingle with being upset for not getting done that crucial decision.
Deadlines get set.
The closet remains bulging.
Good name for the yucky feeling that happens in my tummy.
It didn’t look like this, but this is how it felt.
Guess I’ll have to clean and hang up all those clothes again.
That really made a mess.