Shattered

I heard the world’s loudest crash last night as I was stepping out of the shower – there was only one thing it could be – my platter.

I’d had this huge serving platter for almost twelve years now. It was a gift from my mother-in-law, one of those rare gifts when someone gets it exactly right. I’d first seen it in one of her decorating magazines, and sighed over its bright colors and mentioned wistfully that I’d design my entire kitchen around a statement piece like that. She laughed with me, but paid attention and tracked it down. Five months later, I unwrapped my birthday present to find the very piece I’d admired.

It became a symbol of home for me, the first piece I placed anywhere we went. In one house it sat atop the piano, another the mantle. In our favorite house, in OKC, I said “I’d put my plate right in that corner” the first time the realtor showed us the kitchen, and it sat in it’s spot for all of the years until we moved to Dallas. It was also how I knew that this house wasn’t home, because my platter never quite looked right no matter where I placed it.

Then last night it shattered on the kitchen floor, the victim of a complete accident. My husband yelled out to me, “Don’t come out here. You don’t want to see.” and I’m glad I listened. He and the boys bagged up the fragments and put them outside in the garbage, so that I didn’t have to see it broken. I’m glad that they did.

I feel a little silly today to be crying over a broken dish, but walking back through the kitchen starts the tears flowing again. There are not a lot of things that I’m emotionally attached to, and that plate was one of them. Which is, I think, why it got broken.

During the almost 19 years I’ve been a mom, my children have managed to break or destroy anything with sentimental value to me. The afghan my grandmother made as a high school graduation gift,  my grandmother’s wedding china, a dozen other things, and even my original wedding ring have all been innocently ruined or broken by my family. No one is malicious, but things seem to always happen to my stuff.

The son who broke the plate last night is devastated. He fought back tears as he apologized. “It’s just a thing,” I told him. “Things are not important. You are infinitely more precious to me than anything I could ever own.” While I meant it, I wish they’d stop testing me on that.

I used to joke that they were the gift that God had given me to keep me from an attachment to worldly goods and keep my eyes on Him. I’m beginning to think that I was onto something. My husbands heirlooms and mementos have survived moves and small children in nearly pristine condition. My children’s keepsakes are largely intact. It is only the things I care about that break, and to be honest I’m getting a little tired of it.

I started shopping online for a replacement this morning. Nothing seems quite right. Perhaps I’ll take this opportunity to branch out into something new. Do you have any suggestions? Lots of color and fun? Full of whimsy? I’m open to all possibilities, but it has to be cheap enough for me to buy two. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that I’m going to need a back-up.