The Trusty Old Couch

Mark bought it in ’05 to furnish his newly acquired bachelor pad. When we moved to our house 6.5 years ago, he asked if I’d like to get a new one. “No,” I told him. “I have a cat and I want kids. That couch is perfect for this stage of our lives.”

Fast forward to today. The couch has claw marks up the back from Potter jumping onto it time and time again. It’s been splattered with breast milk and spit up, pancake syrup and ice cream – clearly, we allow eating on our couch – and as of last night, vomit. Doesn’t matter. It’s an old faithful that wipes down easily.

I started with bleach wipes this morning (can’t do that with cloth couches) and have moved on to hot, soapy water to try to cut the smell (disgusting, I know). But as I scrub, I’m thankful for a boyfriend with decent taste, for foresight, for putting practical above posh, and most of all, for this trusty, old couch.


Perfectly Practical. Practically Perfect.


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