Image by Hannah Alexander

A nostalgic Fawn Warner-Rechkemmer has trouble letting go of her old family sofa.

We’ve been considering replacing our living room furniture. Our couch is a neutral tan/brown color. It has large seat cushions with huge throw pillows, which act as back cushions. It’s a very cozy couch that can magically transport you to dreamland within minutes of laying down on it. But our couch is about eight years old, and it’s starting to show some wear. It has survived cat scratches, moving into and out of four different houses, stranded sippy cups slowly leaking sour milk into it, assaults involving markers and other art supplies, and two bouts with potty training. Lately, it gets stripped of its cushions on a daily basis to become the stage for “The Kid Show,” a production that includes A LOT of jumping and bouncing. Even then he was very active, somersaulting and ninja-kicking my pelvis to show his boredom in the wee hours.

I remember, too, the incalculable amount of time I spent sitting on our couch, feeding my daughter and reading, reading, reading. My first born could easily make a day out of getting her nutrients, and I remember sitting, staring longingly into the kitchen, wishing I could go and do something productive, like cook dinner or wash the dishes. In hindsight, I didn’t know how good I had it. Going back even further, I recalled more pregnant nights spent on the couch, waking up the morning of my due date to see my husband standing over me expectantly. “Where’s the baby?” he joked. Little did we know, we’d have to wait another five long days.

Pre-kids, the couch was the place where we sat and visited with friends, where we cuddled and watched movies, and where both of us took what now seem like impossibly long afternoon naps.

It seems odd that something as utilitarian as a couch could be such a source of nostalgia. Maybe this is why I have yet to find a couch that I like better than the one we have. Maybe excessive wistfulness is just one of those things that happens when you become a parent, or maybe I’m just getting sappier as I get older. Either way, I’m thinking we’ll be squeezing another eight years out of our couch. Mommy isn’t ready to let go.

 

Fawn Rechkemmer is a mother and freelance writer. She spends her time refereeing Shoots & Ladders, reading books she wishes she had written, and going for runs with a tall blonde girl so that no one will notice her while she's red and sweaty. Fawn blogs at InsteadOfTheDishes.com.