The Couch

Dear Sweet Family Room Couch,

You tattered, stained and smelly old couch.

I love you.

You were my first piece of brand new furniture back in late 1999. 

Yes, you are that old.  I know you don't feel like it because you've been kept young with good company, but you are from the 20th century.

I think you started out a light cream color.  But now, you've turned to grey.

I suppose that's how we as humans are too.  We start out so perfect and then turn grey with age.

Look at all you've been through...   in September of 2000, you comforted my body as I lay with my newborn baby boy.

In early 2001, you graciously let me remove your back cushions to allow me to sit my sweet boy in the corner of your armrest and back to support him as he learned to sit up.

As the years went on, you were so patient as he jumped around as if you were a trampoline.... and despite your desire for modesty, allowed him to remove all of the cushions numerous times to make a fort out of you.

You've had countless sippy cups spilled on you, crumbs from crackers and sandwiches scattered in your crevices, and a disgusting amount of germs from illness and everything else.

In 2004, you were a cozy bed to lay on during my maternity leave with Bekah. 

and the process began again... bottles, sippy cups, crackers, etc.

At some point, you had to sigh a bit of relief as the kids got older.  Don't worry sweet couch, I did too.

You've moved with me when I bought my first home.

and even though it took a near-miracle to get you through the doorway, you made it.  And have called my family room 'home' for almost 3 years now.

So, I think it goes without saying that our separation is bittersweet for me.  On Tuesday, my new furniture will arrive. 

And you will be gone.

I know you're old, and tired and ready for a rest.

But to make the transition easier on both of us, I won't make the effort at cleaning out your cushions.  Perhaps it will be my gift to you.  I'll let you keep your modesty by not removing all your cushions and viciously sucking all the crap out of your crevices.... and you can consider it my gift of memories.

...or maybe my laziness.

Either way... you keep the crumbs and I'll keep the memories.

Thanks again for over a decade of comfort... in more ways than one.