Loveseat Blues

It was the first piece of furniture my husband and I ever bought together—a loveseat and matching sofa pullout bed. Made of heavy burlap sack material, in thick striped beige and navy blue design with detachable back cushions (that I later would hate picking up off the floor incessantly), over sized armrests, the seat cushion accommodated my 6’ 1” husband’s leg span comfortably.

Tom and I had been together two years—one dating and one engaged and were moving into an apartment in Forest Hills, New York. We were nervous-$1,100 total for the set. Until then, the only other large purchase we had made in the thousands was my engagement ring and deposits for our Long Island wedding.

The salesman at Sofa Bed World in Farmingdale convinced us…“virtually in-destructable, scotchguarded for rugged durability—colors will match anything—throughout life. Your kids will take ‘em to college with them.”

Kids. We grinned sheepishly at each other and plunked down the credit card and went out for celebratory ice cream, marveling at how compatible our taste in furniture or, now looking back, lack thereof was.

The delivery guys came to our Forest Hills apartment and we prayed as they shoved the sofa bed into the 1920s black grated elevator on up to the 3rd floor, pulling, grunting and cursing to get both couches down the narrow hallway. The next year we lovingly wrapped them in plastic, moved into our first home and five years later trudged them to this, our second house.

Many a day was spent with my children tucked in bouncy seats nestled in its fabric and later sprawling arm and leg limbs climbed up and over the couch as they grew. Fights broke out over who would sleep on the loveseat during Saturday night “den” slumber parties.

Then last night Robert was sick with the stomach virus and barfed up his dinner all over the loveseat that now has a major hole in the springs where shoes or toys lodged and went missing for days. It was really on its last leg and this virtually indestructible couch met its match in 9-year-old Robert.

We cleaned it off and brought the couch to the street for the garbage men. The girls cried a dirge in unison. “Our Couch!” Tom hung his head waxing poetic sentiments about many Monday night football games spent eating chicken wings on “his” couch.

I felt the winds of change blowing. It’s a new phase in our family’s life cycle. We have begun to grow, outlasting the first go around of indestructible, crappy furniture. Time to redecorate!

This morning, Robert felt much better and I gave him a high-five saying, “Next time, throw up all over the cheap Persian carpet—maybe we’ll get a real one.”

Needless to say, we’re all trying to avoid the stomach virus. Stay well.