I don’t consider myself a decorator or as having many skills in interior design. After flicking through some old photos I have to admit though, I have been prone to majorly changing our living room around at least once a year.
At the moment I’m halfway through our third wall colour and our third tv storage solution. The flooring has changed twice and our poor battered old chair has had at least four homes (and gets made homeless every Christmas to make way for the tree).
That’s all in 4 years.
However, one thing hasn’t changed.
The sofa. (Settee if you like but please don’t say couch).
Bless it, the poor old thing. It was our first purchase, stuck on the Argos card with a couple of months free finance and was delivered on my first official day of maternity leave while I took bump photos in the mirror.
At over 37 weeks, when this turned up I couldn’t really do much.
But I managed.
Now, this might seem a little ‘ranting into the internet’ gone mad but this was a HUGE life choice!!
After all we had been through to bring out family together in the 30+ weeks since that stick finally showed us more than one line, this was the start of being able to breathe.
The start of, in hindsight, a 21 and 22-year-old who didn’t really have a clue about how the world worked starting to building something on their own decisions – that started with having a corner sofa.
I was excited when we decided ‘we really need a new one’. But that’s when I started thinking about all the things this one has seen since that Tuesday in 2012.
It’s seen me lying on it every morning of maternity leave, covered in the quilt watching Jeremy Kyle and having a few more hours nap – the third trimester essentials.
It was the site of most of my labour. It was comfy and new enough to support that agonising moment between young woman and mother until I thought I was going to be sick (and poo but that would have just been another persons head coming out). Maybe trying preserve the sofa was the reason I managed to make it to the toilet to give birth.
Because I couldn’t have cleaned that out of the upholstery.
James slept on there for nearly a week until I came out of hospital. We all slept on there together for another 7 days after I got home, watching the clock with bleeding nipples while Jay slept in his moses basket.
Who knew that getting rid of a piece of furniture could bring back all these memories.
It is in the background of nearly every baby photo, including some of Jays first steps.
It has put up with sick, being put into the washing machine, and all the food and drink a toddler could throw at it.
It’s also dealt with so much breastmilk being spilt on it, it should have turned into a cow.
However, what it couldn’t deal with was my husbands arse. Springs just weren’t any match for a 6ft 6 man throwing himself down that far day after day (because young adults never considered how far away from the floor it was). I’m sure Jay using it as a trampoline didn’t help either.
So it is time to part ways. Say goodbye to the stains and the cushions that no longer stay plump.
They’ve served us well and a mums best friend truly is the sofa that serves her family. Happy news is broken there, sick children nap there, take aways are shamelessly eaten there.
Now we aren’t in our early 20’s. We’ve made countless more decisions since then about our home, family and lifestyle.
We know what is good for our family and what is not.
We have found our feet enough to invest. We’re putting the next stage of our family into memory foam and an impulsive decision of ‘skye’ green – the colour now responsible for us having to repaint for a third time. We’re old enough now to appreciate the value of the extra protection spray.
This isn’t our first rodeo.
So thanks DFS. Mainly for unloading it for me while I ate my chicken wraps rather than having to struggle with it around a nearly cooked baby bump. I feel like a true adult now.
Thanks old sofa. You saw some things and you stayed with us until the bitter end. You’ll always be there in the back of our photos. Bless you.
Now to get on with obsessively cleaning the new one. That impulsive light green decision didn’t take into account a 4-year-old, ready for school, wielding a pen.
Maybe the adulting will take some more practise.