I of course ran into the living room to access the situation. To my horror I saw my husband's deceased mother's chair tipped over, missing the back. This is the moment that I had my first honest to God panic attack. My face got hot, my forehead beaded sweat and I couldn't breath properly. I actually had to sit down for a minute before I could start to truly access the situation. I checked KiKi over, then sent her to her room. Then I went back to the dinner that was in the oven. I think I was still in denial. That chair just COULD NOT be broken.
You see, it isn't just that this chair belonged to my husband's mother, this was the chair I rocked my own babies in. Two generations of babies rocked in this one chair, and it was sitting in pieces on my living room floor like a jigsaw puzzle that had been cast aside. I was afraid that when my husband saw the damage that he would flip his lid, but actually to me it was more than that. I know it sounds silly, but that chair was sort of a weird connection for me to my husband's mother. You see, I never met her, she died when my husband was just a child, but we had both rocked babies in that chair.
I spent the better part of an hour putting that chair back together with wood glue and shear determination. I don't think anyone will be allowed near that chair for a very long time. It is just way too precious.
