When I had my first apartment, everything had to be as pure as possible. Nothing was allowed to stand around. My brother and I always called our parents’ toddler stuff stand-up rumskis, it didn’t work at all. My father, usually a farmer through and through and rather solid, always had an inexplicable craze with hand-painted porcelain figures from Meissen (birds on branches, ladies-in-waiting with updos, hoop skirts and corsets, galloping horses with waving manes and stuff like that). My mother always looked after the Erzgebirge angels, rabbits and flower children, who their parents had painstakingly saved up during the economic boom, like the balls of their eyes. Blow your nose.
But now, in my late forties, I notice that not only Corona is contagious, but somehow also Fimmel. In the meantime, in any case, they somehow touch my heart, the fat little angels with the harps and the flower children – it all started when I bought a flower girl myself when I finally had a daughter. Then I thought it was unfair, such a little quota woman, so two little boys with seppel hats came along – well, and then Engelkapelle at Christmas time. My husband shakes his head, but he has nothing to report, I also have to lug his parents’ first sofa with me every time I move. In the meantime I’ve even looked out for my father’s porcelain figurines and places in our home where they might one day go. But my brother has already announced a need. As time goes by….
Julia, Podcaster “Parents Talk”