Couched Terms

I just made the second major furniture purchase of my adult life (the first being a dining room table bought in a hurry so there would be somewhere to sit for Helen’s baptism party).  This is kind of pathetic when you know how long I’ve been an adult. It is understandable when you know about Pennsylvania Dutch thriftiness. The Sofa was made possible by several years worth of credit card purchases had built up to a mountain of points just waiting to be converted to major bucks to use anywhere I wanted. Like Pottery Barn! The couch I had coveted so long would soon be mine.

Helen and Mei were of course excited that we would be getting a real couch to replace the old futon. Not so fast, I warned them. This is a New Sofa. It is pristine and comes with some rules to keep it that way. There will be no eating on this sofa! No dirty feet on it! You will wash your hands before reclining (OK I didn’t say this but I thought it. You would understand if you saw Mei’s hand after some meals).

New Sofa was bringing out the worst in me and I was worried I may squelch their joy with my need to keep it looking good. I shouldn’t have. The day it was delivered I spent a half hour admiring The Sofa’s clean lines, the plush microfiber, its firm seat cushions and puffy back pillows. Then the girls got home from school.

“Girls, our new couch is here, isn’t it great!” I gushed.  “It’s perfect, mom,” they cried together. “What part do you like best – the color? fabric? The arms rolled just right?” “The Cushions!” they declared. “They are perfect for a fort. Can we make one now?” Within minutes The Sofa was deconstructed and two girls with dirty feet had a tea party inside. Which makes it the best couch ever.

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