I truly think our child believes we party all night long on our couch.
You see, when Saturday is done and cleaned up and after we raced hither and yon, and we folded towels and washed windows and grabbed burritos for supper and swept up leftover cereal and eggs crumbs and put away our memory games and little cars and toys that were all over the floor and on the coffee table and then when we stopped the movie we started after sitting down on the couch when it’s completely dark and chilly outside with our warm tea or lattes, we pick up our yawning little one and gently place him in his crib in-spite his ‘uh-uhhs’ in response to “Are you ready for bed?” It’s after we tip-toed out of his room that we make our way back to the couch in hopes of finishing the movie that he, our little one, becomes suspicious.
You see, the next day Sunday dawns bright and warm, bursting through our windows and when we can’t stand it no longer either me or Jason head over to make the coffee. Eventually we find our way back to the sofa armed with hot steamy mugs and something sweet as Jason’s tradition that I succumbed to, along with iPad or laptop and an iPhone for me. When Gavin enters the scene staged back again in the living room, where does he find his mother and father but perched again on the couch nestled in the cushions with blankets and pillows. Exactly where he left us the night before
And as the day tarried, we land back down upon the couch during the middle of the afternoon, after a lunch of any shape or size or flavor and where either Sunday football, or reading catch-up time without interruptions or simply blessed sleep take place. Yes, on the couch. We relax, prop up our legs, bury cold toes under blankets and rest our longing to unwind bodies hard on throw pillows and on each other.
The couch beckons us in, soft and poofy, strong and supportive, quiet community at home. It’s a Sunday afternoon and where you’ll find us. It’s where we end our Saturdays and spend just about half of our Sunday. It’s where our dear child signs off with us and greets us the next day.
And one day, perhaps when we are too old to move or care we might just stay there, on the couch, worn out and stuck, bedded down for the night. It just may be that we will, after all the years and history of our lives unfold we will stay on that dear couch of ours full of memories and then in the end full of the people who made the memories.
It’s a couch’s life in our house. He is needed and has worth. Earned high value and carries marks of use. He’s as much a part of our family as any other person. A part of our story that we couldn’t live without. A part of our story that if subtracted out wouldn’t be the same story for us, in our house on Hackberry.