If these couch cushions could talk


I had the pleasure of going to a Toledo Ballet performance called “If These Walls Could Dance,” where figures inspired by a mural in the Valentine Theater came to life and told their story. While the rest of the audience was enjoying the beauty of the moment, all I could think of was that I was thankful our “walls,” and for that matter our carpeting, furniture and assorted other inanimate objects at my home were keeping their mouths shut!

Hiding more than loose change

A couch that is now located in the girl’s “playroom” once resided in my childhood home. Thank God it’s not able to share the time that my college boyfriend and I would have scored a perfect 10 in a “couch high jump” when my Mom wandered into the family room unexpectedly. It didn’t rat us out after we leapt up and pretended to be looking for a missing contact lens.

The carpeting in my house could write a tell-all novel. The family room flooring survived a geriatric Great Gram, a guinea pig who liked to go AWOL, three dogs including an alpha male with territory insecurities, and far too many teens (and the mess that comes with them) to count. The carpeting in my daughter’s room would keep any CSI agent busy for months. A crime lab would shake their heads as remnants of hair dye, nail polish, and an unspeakable substance from my ADULT child (yes, I know, major oxymoron but it applies) who found out that Big Macs and champagne are not a great combo.

There is a crack in the tile from letting the girls stand on the tub ledge as I held them and proclaimed, “Representing the United States she now will attempt a super jump.” I would then repeat it in my best French accent, have her wave to the crowd, lift her high and place her gently down into the bubble filled tub.

Wear, tear
and lots of love

Don’t get me wrong, I do keep a clean house. However, we have chipped paint from furniture being moved in and out of college dorms and “upgrading” to a different room when a sister moves out. There is a great divide resulting from the question, “What time is it when multiple teens sit on a kitchen countertop?” (Answer: Time to get a new one!) We also have the names and heights of our children permanently written inside one of the doorways. Yes, I could paint over it, but it’s a constant reminder of how quickly they grow up. Although the Corgi, with two inch legs and “height issues” (according to a pet psychic we ran into at the park), has remained constant.

This time of year, we moms cling to our sanity and self-esteem as images of perfect holiday homes in glossy magazines appear in our mailboxes. Looking around my humble abode, it would be easy to focus on the imperfections. Supporting my young women through life means fixing the cracks and replacing the old carpeting will just have to wait. I will have to add some ambiance by busting out the twinkle lights, the angel with the broken wing and the plastic mistletoe (that better know the meaning of a “Vegas moment”) and our other “stuff” that thankfully only speaks to my heart. I know that Gram’s bent reindeer cookie cutter that turns out cookies that look more like large poodles, and some of my Pop’s ornaments that defy explanation, should find their way to the nearest hefty bag. I’m just not ready to let them go. They are reminders of the now missing generation that added to the history of this much “loved in” and “lived in” house. I guess our home mimics its occupants. We are at times “in repair,” but highly loved.