Couch of the Valkyries

“Careful, the couch!” This is the Valkyrie cry in our home, since I am prepared to slay any small (or large) being who might casually soil our newly acquired piece of furniture. This may seem a harsh punishment, but if you knew how long I have been waiting to buy a new couch, you might empathize with me.

For years, I’ve been trapped in this apartment with a hideous canapé, a cream-colored (read: off-white and stained) sofa-bed with far too many cushions to add any aesthetic presence to our living room. The seat cushions were famous for their capacity to spontaneously slide forward and down toward the floor. More than once, I sat on what I thought was the edge of the couch, only to hit the parquet myself. The four square cushions that were supposed to line up along the back of the couch were too easily crunched and crushed, or completely removed and transformed into a fort or a roof or series of stepping stones on the floor, permitting dry passage to the foyer without menace from the alligators. That old couch was a boat, a barge, a bridge – about anything you wanted it to be. It absolutely stimulated young, playful imaginations, which was, in the end, the only thing I liked about it.

Then last month, an astro-furniture convergence smiled upon me when three planets finally aligned: Saturn, the planet of limits moved into the 5th house of small children, and conjunct Jupiter, the planet of expansion, and Venus, the planet of beauty, in the 4th house of home and 60%-off. The kids are now finally old enough (and coordinated enough) to pay attention to rules and warnings. A little Christmas cash augmented our budget, permitting this purchase despite the recession. De-facto even agreed that after last summer’s repainting of the living room, the old couch looked pretty tired.

Forget that we had to bulldog the new couch through the front door, since I neglected to measure before purchasing. Absurdly, it was a few centimeters too large. The tiny grease mark on the side that resulted from its dramatic breech birth (feet first, after their removal) into our apartment is barely visible. The new couch matches the carpet, and makes our living room look, well, grown-up. De-facto likes it, too, he says it really ties the room together.


But then, the law had to be laid down. Short-pants and Buddy-roo were summoned to the new couch, invited to admire it, and ideas were solicited for how we might keep it clean and pretty. My children are smart and their suggestions were on the money, so they now have some ownership of the new couch mantra: no shoes, no eating, no drinking, no drawing. Except that occasionally I have to remind them. The minute one of them even looks the couch with their shoes on, or comes within a meter of it while holding a cookie in hand, I’ll shout out: “Careful! The couch!” I can’t help it. I just blurt it out. The other day, Short-pants dips her head and looks at me over her glasses, “I know mama, don’t worry.”

I hate this, really. I don’t want to be yelling at them about a couch. With the old one, I didn’t care. I might casually throw out a gentle warning, “feet off the couch…” but that was only to reinforce good manners. There’s nothing they could have done to hurt that old gray lady. But now I’m nervous, constantly walking the tightrope between the desired aesthetics of my adult life and the vigorous imagination of my children’s. I want them to be creative, which often means being messy and manipulating their environment to match what’s happening in their minds. I just don’t want to look at it, in my living room. And I don’t want it to damage my new, beautiful, stylin’ couch.

This morning, a plastic pink cup found perched on the arm of the new couch – fortunately no trace had been left – but then Buddy-roo’s name came in a shriek and then a stern reprimand of “what did we all agree to, about the couch?” She stood, frozen. Eyes on the couch, then on me. Then that face, the mouth curves down into a precious kind of pout, and an eruption of tears, “I really miss our old couch.”

Not me. I’m glad it’s gone. But this can’t go on.

5 Responses to “Couch of the Valkyries”

  • Franca Leeson Says:

    Go pour a glass of wine onto the new couch to welcome it properly into the family. Then whatever happens after that (and it will) won’t be as bad.

  • Wampole Says:

    Wow, that’s a dangerous color for a couch! i don’t think i would trust myself with that, and i’m well over kid-age. But never fear – I have a solution for you!! Target and Pottery Barn both have wonderful couch covers you can buy (i think in the 100 dollar range, maybe lower if on sale) and then you can have a washable cover, hence less stress. I’m pretty sure you can find one that will fit tight and look good. And you could always take it off if you wanted to feature the couch’s original cover for a special occasion.

    Now that we have a puppy i am attuned to these issues. We use throw blankets and only let her sit on the couch if she’s on the blanket. Of course, we don’t have to worry about her drawing or eating on it!
    p.s. is there a way to scotchguard it? it seems to help to resist stains..

  • Delphine Says:

    Life is funny. Last evening I had a talk with my lover about how I regularly shout out for nothing. Yesterday morning, we were just on time to go to the Centre de loisirs and I was convinced we were late. So I made them run all the way long. John told me : “It makes no diffrence at all walking or running, you just gained 1 or 2 minutes that’s it.” The same behavior occured yesterday evening at dinner (and THAT happens VERY often at dinner as I hate sitting and eating too long). I began to say “hurry up”, “eat”, “stop speaking, just eat” and things like that. Pressure was growing and then John told me “keep cool we’re dining only for 15 minutes”. “Oh my” as you say. I have decided to try and stop behaving like that. I really have to yell when really appropriate and not just becaus I feel stressfull… Is there a comportamental therapy to help on that??? 😉

  • MDBlogs Says:

    I don’t know, it’s a good question. I think that as modern mothers we’re so overloaded with things we need to do for our work, for our kids, for ourselves, that we’re walking pressure-cookers and the littlest thing that takes us off track can make us start yelling. I don’t practice this, but I’ve been thinking about it: regular meditation. Any time I’ve meditated on a regular basis in the past, my temper had a different kind of fuse. Ah, yes, but (oh my) when does mom find time to meditate?

  • Tall Dude in Chicago Says:

    “[De Facto] says it really ties the room together.” I believe he channeling “The Dude” from “The Big Lebowski.” Gives him a whole new image!

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